


The Crimson Eclipse

by dreamsofseagulls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Positive, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle Fiction, Blood and Violence, Canon Gay Relationship, Humor, Loss, M/M, Mage Rights, Mages vs. Templars, Party Banter, Past Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Quests, Romance, Work In Progress, first draft, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofseagulls/pseuds/dreamsofseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hawke will follow Anders anywhere . . . even if it means returning to the Deep Roads.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>With a bit of persuaded assistance, the Champion embarks on a quest for which even he is unprepared. Darkspawn and corrupted spiders abound, but the buried secrets stirring in the subterranean stonework have been unearthed by a portentous interference. Unthinkable monstrosities lie in wait, their discovery a threat to the well-being - and sanity - of all who encounter them. As Hawke succumbs to a grievous affliction, will his friends successfully rally to save him before he falls victim to this new breed of horror? Will Anders face the nightmarish echoes from a past resurfaced and surrender his own life for the man he loves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _This fan fiction is part of a larger work in progress with multiple chapters and more to come. It is a first draft and entirely unedited. Comments and/or constructive criticism are *always* welcome. Much thanks!_

A magnificent burst of blue flames exploded in all directions, brilliant trails of tempest fire snaking their way into the cracks and crevices of the crumbling fortress hidden and long-forgotten in the Deep Roads. The tattered remains of once-claimed house banners fluttered violently and fell to shreds in the dust and debris below. Two men raced wildly in the direction of the ethereal fire’s distant place of origin.

“Bianca, feel free to play dirty with these blighted bastards!”

Varric’s shouts of frenzied glee in the midst of battle echoed within the abandoned fortress walls as he aimed his crossbow, landing its deadly bolt directly in the advancing Hurlock’s eye socket. His expert dispatch of the darkspawn was closely followed by a hearty gale of laughter from his companion who, shifting his blood-slicked stave with a practiced twirl, swiftly swept it past the dwarf’s left ear, the red steel of its blade glowing crimson and illuminating the gore with which it was painted. Varric sidestepped just in time as the arching blade seared through the second Hurlock’s neck, sizzling flesh and charred bone coupled with a shriek of agony eventually giving way to full decapitation.

“It seems we’re _headed_ into the fray,” quipped Hawke. With a charming smirk saying he knew _exactly_ how awful that pun was, he spent a swift kick to the newly severed skull and sent it flying across the hall, a shower of blackened blood frothing through the musty air.

The quicksilver flash of a lifted blade from directly ahead of them stopped the cranium midair, splitting it in twain, pulverizing the viscous gray matter within and splattering it across the ancient dwarven stonework.

“Maker, Hawke! Couldn’t you have possibly aimed a bit toward the left?”

Aveline’s tone had a slight twinge of annoyance, but her mood lightened considerably upon dutiful evisceration of the Hurlock duo that thereafter rushed the shield she braced against them.

“Apologies! My foot must have-- slipped.” Hawke chuckled softly to himself.

Another explosion of blue fire from the adjacent corridor sent the three of them staggering backwards with its subsequent pressure wave, a rush of scattered sparks spraying across the floor at their feet. It was followed by a hollow pulse and an alarming vibration that reverberated through the stones. Soon thereafter, the pulse and vibration ceased and an eerie silence pervaded the fortress.

Hawke’s smile faded. He absentmindedly wiped at the side of his mouth. A thick trail of blood flowed steadily from a gash at his temple, smearing across his right cheekbone to meet with another open wound. Varric shook his head in brief disorientation and pressed his fingers together to extinguish a lingering ember biting at the sash across his waist.

“Aveline, how far ahead is he?” inquired the mage, an almost imperceptible catch of desperation in his voice.

“Judging from the blast, I’d say he hasn’t made it past the Paragons on the edge of the thaig. He rushed past me before I had a chance to hold him back.” She paused, considering. “Rest assured, I shall, if duty requires, purge that . . . that _abomination_ if he needlessly places us in such danger again while he embarks on his raving pursuit of fanciful--”

“We can manage ourselves.”

Hawke shot her a brief scowl. Whenever one of his companions used that word to describe Anders he felt himself bristle with resentment as if they’d spurned his own heart. But was he not also consumed in part by fear? Such a deep-rooted fear, a despairing terror lurking in the recesses of his mind.

His Anders. His own Anders.

Three years together yet still neither the rebel apostate’s lurking fury nor his bouts of paranoia nor his fiercely unpredictable shifts in emotions could sway Hawke from his side. Many a sleepless night the Champion had passed as of late, unable to find repose, while wandering the halls of his estate, drink in hand--rather, third or fourth drink in hand--nursing an inebriated state of despondency in wait for Anders’ return from Maker knows where. More often these days, Anders would slip through the cellar door just as the first budding rays of morning light peeked through the tempered glass in the study where Hawke had inevitably found muddled rest. It was equally as likely that, if Anders did indeed return home at a reasonable evening hour, Hawke would spend the subsequent few either listening with profound patience to the apostate’s manic proclamations of necessary political upheaval and templar conspiracies or, alternatively, cradling the mage gently in his arms as he wept with trembling sighs against his chest, only to periodically pull away, ashamed at his display of such weakness--or what to Anders was certainly such--in the company of the man he admired and cherished most.

Admittedly, the apostate was impossible - yet Hawke truly, acutely, intensely loved him. His own, his Anders.

But what in the void had he gotten himself into _this_ time?


	2. Chapter 2

“I think Blondie’s lost his cool. I can’t wait to see the condition of whatever’s tripped his switch.”

Varric whistled nervously at the thought and shook the grip of Bianca free from the dust that had settled in the crossbow’s leather moulding.

The three companions fell into a rapid sprint in the direction of the latest blast, their heavy footfalls rhythmically pounding the cracked stone and loose rubble. As they neared the outermost border of the thaig, the tops of the ornately carved paragons became visible, monuments to a once-great dwarven stronghold and now mere remnants of a bygone epoch.

Hawke skirted ahead of his two companions and paused at the threshold, outstretching both arms in a silent note of caution, still unaware of the exact nature of the situation they were about to enter. With a whispered petition to the Maker, Aveline gripped her blade firmly, readying herself. Varric, on the other hand, had no interest in pious contemplations; his attention had been immediately captured by the grisly residuum strewn across the base of the statues, and he found himself internally taking back his former desire to witness the aftermath firsthand. 

“Uh, Hawke…”

A fleck of blood flew from his brow as the Champion whirled to face Varric--at first, to hush him lest they all be slaughtered on the spot by whatever exactly lay ahead. Upon spotting the carnage to which the dwarf was dramatically gesturing, however, he bit his lip with the further realization. A sickening dread dropped into the pit of his stomach and he steeled himself against vomiting ( _Keep last night’s mutton down, so help me…_ ), though this reaction was certainly not due to the sight of the corpses - or whatever remained of them, that is - or the rather unpleasant ways in which they had been dispatched en masse ( _Honestly, how did he manage that?_ ).

“Well, these certainly are -- were not Hurlocks. There must be more than thirty here, far more than a patrol,” Aveline said as she toed the mangled remains.

Hawke sighed heavily.

“Templars.” 

“Look on the bright side. At least he got them all. Probably,” Varric remarked.

The recognition, however, had settled everything and set all three of them on high alert. When templars were concerned, that meant Justice. And when Justice was concerned -- well, that typically meant turning it over to the noble Champion because, as Varric often commented, "The guy just seems to like you better.”

“He’s all yours, Chuckles,” said Varric.

“Why, what a gracious offer!” Hawke retorted and, smoothing his hair, attempted an air of levity by adding, “How do I look? Do you think he’ll swoon on sight?”

“I would.”

Aveline muttered beneath her breath -- “children!” -- and began to push past the two men, sword at the ready.

“Hint taken. Off I go.” Hawke straightened his stance, needlessly dusted his thoroughly blood-soaked armor, and began inching forward. “See me advance. A step at a time. Here go I, Champion of Kirkwall, defender of the people, into the maw of--”

With a meaninful shove from Aveline’s shield, Hawke stumbled ahead and caught his balance at the edge of the paragons. He’d stepped into the thaig’s outer gateyard, his companions close at his back, their weapons drawn and prepared for the worst.


	3. Chapter 3

The gateyard widened into a vast corridor flanked by the immense statues of the paragons, its cavernous interior lit exclusively by streams of magma flowing alongside the subterranean ramparts. The only other illumination radiated from a furiously pacing figure a stone’s throw from the slowly advancing Hawke, this pulsing blue glow emanating from two glaring eyes and casting a muted brilliance upon the tightly knitted brow and once-fair features of their owner.

Hawke ventured a tentative form of address. “Justice--”

The figure did not pause, though its pace quickened. To Hawke’s dismay, its left hand clutched at an object unknown.

“They will all rot!”

“Well, they certainly seem to be doing so--”

“They will pay for their crimes with torrents of blood!”

“They appear to have very little of that left--” 

“I shall see them consumed by carrion birds and shat upon the butchered scraps of their commanders!”

“That’s … really rather heart-warming, but seeing as we’re currently below the surface--”

Justice thundered toward Hawke, his wrathful glare sending what felt like a sliver of ice jutting into the Champion’s gut. That was going to do wonders for his nausea. Hawke held up both of his hands in open surrender.

“I’m sorry. The thing is . . . I really rather require Anders at the moment. See, he’s left a truly disastrous avalanche of papers in my study that we need to discuss--”

“Silence!” The blue illumination flashed, punctuated by the spirit’s guttural command. “Anders proved himself insufficient for this task.”

“And this task was--?”

“Of no consequence NOW,” Justice bellowed, his eyes again blazing fiercely. “The templar fiends have removed the item sought!”

At this, Justice paused his frantic steps and violently flung the object in his grasp: the charred husk of an ancient tome, its pages torn from the binding. Hawke seized the opportunity to take a series of cautious strides forward, leaving Aveline and Varric tightening the grip on their respective weaponry.

“We will find this tome.” Hawke’s tone had dropped. This was not a placation; it was a promise to the man he loved. He reached out, curling his hand around the nape of the apostate’s neck and ducked in front of him to meet him eye-to-eye as he struggled to move away. “We _will_ find it, Anders. Together.”

Aveline took a step forward, her sword lifted, but Varric shook his head.

“Wait. I think he has this.”

Though she was certainly not as supportive of Hawke’s reckless intimacy with the rebel mage as was the dwarf, Aveline had to admit that there was a certain chemistry if not equilibrium between them -- perhaps as mages, perhaps as outsiders, or perhaps as the love-starved fools they were. So far, she had never felt it her duty to get involved in a more drastic manner. She was, for the most part, confident in Hawke’s abilities and he had proven himself time and again. So she waited.

Hawke, seeing the spectral flame subside in his lover’s eyes, held the same confidence. It was, however, not in himself.

“Anders?”

The apostate’s shoulders tensed, a sharp intake of air jarring his lungs. Hawke tenderly tucked a tousled strand of blonde in place behind Anders’ ear, pulling him closer, his hand still caressing the back of his neck. Their foreheads met and Hawke peered over at him, a smile spreading across his lips.

“There you are.”


	4. Chapter 4

“By the void, I didn’t do that, did I?” Anders whispered. He surveyed the ruptured gash cut deep into Hawke’s temple. “Let me heal it.”

“No, no. It was the bloody darkspawn. Leave it. You’ve expended yourself too much already.”

“You likely have a concussion--”

“Psshaw!”

“This is serious, Hawke--”

Varric neatly slung Bianca across his shoulder and strutted toward the argument, Aveline rolling her eyes behind him but quite relieved at the satisfactory turn of events.

“Come, you two. Let’s get out of these blasted tunnels before I decide to rewrite your charming personas and cast you in a far more unappealing light.”

Anders had begun to lift a hand to Hawke’s bloodied temple, a serene green glow spreading from the hollow of his palm, but the Champion firmly grasped his wrist to stop him.

“No. You’ll leave yourself defenseless.”

Anders set his jaw. The glow faded.

Varric sighed heavily.

“Stop pouting, Blondie. We’ll get him home safely. Cross my heart, hope to die and all that. He’s right. And I’m not hauling your bony ass back to the surface--”

“Varric,” Aveline said.

“What?” the dwarf asked, noticing the growing edge in her voice but thinking it a rebuke. “He could use a cut of lamb now and then, you have to admit.”

“Varric! Listen!” Aveline repeated sharply. At this, the three men turned to face her.

“What do you hear?” Hawke said. Weapons were immedately drawn by all.

“It’s . . . singing . . .”

As if muted by distance or dimension, the barely discernable sound certainly appeared to be musical in nature but of a highly unsettling and unworldly quality, its language unknown to any mortal ear. Its tones and words, if indeed they were such, were woven together with a resonance of primal energy as if originating from the very depths of the Fade itself, breaching the veil in scattered pockets and rejoining again as one auditory force.

Hawke’s stomach churned unpleasantly, and a haze fell over Anders’ eyes, dimming their former concern for his partner’s well-being.

Troubled, Varric noticed this sudden change in the mages’ dispositions but could only guess as to its cause. He knew there were plentiful channels of raw lyrium in the Deep Roads--veritable poison to mages--but they hadn’t traveled nearly far enough below the surface to reach any deposits yet. In his past, Varric had unfortunately seen firsthand what contact with the unprocessed mineral ore was capable of and there was no way he was willing to take such a gamble with his friends.

“We need to get them out of here. Now,” Varric said to Aveline.

“Why? What do you--?”

“There’s no time.”

Hawke’s face had turned an ashen pale. He nodded his head.

“I’d have to agree. The first pint’s on me. Double back. Before it’s too--”

His proposal was cut short as a gleaming projectile of crystalline material drove into the middle of the group of companions at high-velocity and exploded as it buried itself tip-first in the stonework at their feet, pitching all four of them backwards in opposite directions in a shower of what appeared to be rubied shards.

The floor rumbled beneath them as the launcher of the missile smashed into the gateyard. None of the companions had ever seen a monstrosity such as the one that thundered toward them, gaining speed despite its shambling gait, but a fleeting thought simultaneously entered their minds: _there’s something disturbingly familiar about this . . ._


	5. Chapter 5

“Merciful Andraste!”

Aveline was the first to stagger back to her feet. Varric joined her, Bianca in hand, his other held out to steady himself as a wave of dizziness rushed through his head. He noted an increasing ringing in his ears, but he could still see straight--so he could still fight--and, shit, that’s all that mattered, right?

Though the monstrosity appeared as unnatural and physically twisted as any rampant abomination or demon that company had yet faced, it was of an entirely new corporeality and creation. Its immense hulk glinted sharply, the red radiance of the jagged crystalline growths that hunched its back and disfigured its form jutting angularly from numerous pockets of exposed flesh. Despite its grotesquery, the remnants of joint-shattered armor remained visible, its chestplate still emblazoned with the iconic flaming sword known all too well across Thedas.

 _Templars! What have they_ done _to themselves?_

Varric eyed the horror with new realization, immediately recognizing the crystals that mangled its form as lyrium, red lyrium.

 _The expedition . . . the tainted idol . . ._ Bartrand _. . ._

The sudden remembrance of his elder brother’s violent descent into madness from the idol’s song . . . _he said it sang to him . . ._

“Hawke! Blondie! Don’t go near it! Don’t touch it!”  


Varric cast his glance across the gateyard at the prone mages. The templar horror was approaching them both at an alarming pace. Summoning from what little mana reserve he had left, Anders had instinctively cast a weak barrier around both himself and the fallen Champion, repelling the abomination, but both Aveline and Varric could see the spell’s swirling eclipse was rapidly dissipating.

“To arms!” Aveline shouted to the dwarf, preparing a charge at the monstrosity. A guttural snarl met her cry -- from at her back. Both she and Varric whirled to face the charging threat: a second templar horror that had unexpectedly emerged from the shadows beyond.

Hawke had pushed himself to one knee. The chamber was a mass of red, his eyesight clouded in crimson. Retching, he struggled to his feet. The world swayed and spun. He could feel a sickening warmth spreading and vaguely distinguished a thin sliver of red crystal from the missile had been embedded deep into the side of his neck from the explosion. Thin pulsing veins of red lyrium had begun to trickle upwards from the wound, entering the open gash upon his temple and mingling with the free-flowing blood.

Hawke shook his head fiercely, vainly bidding the red haze pass from his vision. A swift movement nearby caught his attention and, gradually, he began to discern its cause.

“Anders . . .”

“Hawke!”

Rallying, the apostate cast a glyph of repulsion to cast the monstrosity momentarily aback and darted toward Hawke, fighting to maintain the disintegrating barrier that surrounded them. Flecks of blue fire rose in his eyes, kindling.

“I can’t hold Justice back. The templars--” Anders said, gritting his teeth. The spirit was clawing at his mind, its ferocity unbearable.

“You have to release him,” Hawke said. “He may be our only chance. He’ll strengthen the barrier.”

“I may kill us all!”

“I’ll take my chances with the fade spirit!” Varric bellowed, overhearing him. The second horror had rushed him and the Guard-Captain, effectively demanding their teamed approach. Aveline had buried her sword in its side, retrieving the blade and slashing its petrified abdomen asunder, a coiled rope of desiccated intestines spilling from the hewn cavity. Varric had filled its chest with bolt after bolt. The red lyrium throbbed; Aveline’s skin began to blister from the heat emanating from the tainted crystals. Yet still it pursued them.

The barrier was nearly spent, the last trails of fade-energy dimming. Anders knew he had no choice, whatever the consequence. Justice would emerge. In his mind, he frantically pleaded with the spirit to assist his scattered focus and seek vengeance solely on the monstrosities that assailed them. Justice offered no direct reply. Anders sensed the gateyard rush from him, his perceptions shifting, darkening, and heard the spirit’s voice emerge from his own lips to challenge the templar horrors, its rage precariously balanced on the edge of an icy calm.

“I shall consume the blood of my enemy. You shall be naught but a husk. Hollowed. Wasted. Forgotten.”

As if in reply, the monstrosity wrung its head, its veins swelling sickeningly beneath the diseased flesh. Its lyrium-riddled back began pulsating, contorting with anticipation. Unflinching, Justice faced its immediate onslaught as the barrier fell, rousing its strengthened fade-connection to cast a corrosive curse, a spherical mist encircling the horror and capturing its spirit in a death-grasp. Writhing, the monstrosity forcefully expelled a burst of lyrium projectiles at the stoic figure of Justice.

With expert aim, Varric sent two explosive bolts penetrating deep within the second horror’s back, the arrows shattering red lyrium as they detonated and violently rending putrefied muscles and bone shards. Aveline descended on the ravaged horror in a battle frenzy, blade held high.

“By the Lady!” Aveline shouted. Her sword flashed, cleaving the second templar horror’s lyrium-riddled head. A froth of polluted blood gushed forth--and, with a final shudder, the ruptured monstrosity pitched forward, spewing a gout of liquid lyrium, and collapsed on the battered stonework.

Justice staggered backwards against the impact of the crystalline projectiles, one of their poisoned edges slicing through leather weave and flesh beneath. The blue flames flickered, tinged with red, the spirit’s presence dimming against the lyrium’s corruption. Anders felt its poison radiate from the laceration and stumbled slightly. 

Varric raised Bianca level and aimed to the distance, planting a bolt in the cursed horror’s chest as it advanced toward the apostate. It faltered momentarily, a gurgling raising in its fetid throat, and ripped the bolt loose, back pulsating, readying for a final assault.

As the red haze moved to fully envelop his senses, Hawke clutched at his stave and rushed the monstrosity, thrusting the staff’s blade in its upper thigh. With agonizing force, he momentarily summoned a swell of tainted mana to his blistering palms and cast a devastating firestorm upon the cursed horror that faced the waning Anders. The templar horror’s shrieks increased in pitch as the flames enveloped it. Spurred, the curse roused to a state of blinding, star-hewn luminosity--and exploded.


	6. Chapter 6

An expanding effulgence of white light enveloped the templar horror from the inside, a crux of vital spirit energy sapping the red lyrium’s song and, in one blinding instant, the gateyard disappeared from Varric’s vision as the corrosive curse ruptured. Tightly, he squeezed his eyes shut against the excruciating illumination.

With the descending eclipse came a silence so absolute the dwarf felt a twinge of fear creep into his thoughts. 

_Well, you should have known it would eventually come to this… You were bound to get yourself killed following Hawke around_ one _of these days …_

“Does anyone else get the distinct impression that we just died?” Varric shouted, still half-squinting, adjusting to the abrupt and overwhelming darkness.

“If I’m to join the Maker, Varric, I would have hoped my afterlife would not have included an old con like you,” groaned Aveline beside him.

“Ouch. Cons have feelings, too,” Varric said. He was finally able to make out her armored figure. She was wincing, her exposed arms raw with open blisters, but briefly smiled over at him.

Varric shuffled to his feet. “The others?”

Aveline hesitated.

“Hawke, moan if you can hear me!” the dwarf said as he and Aveline advanced. “You still owe me that pint!”

At the far end of the gateyard, a shuddering emerald flicker illuminated a small stretch of space. The two companions could faintly discern the supine figure of Hawke, his bloodied head resting in Anders’ lap. The apostate was kneeling, hunched over, his open palms stretched lightly across the Champion’s neck. The verdant glow was tenuous at best; a rubied glint corrupted its color.

“Is he--?” said Varric. His tone had sunken.

“No,” Anders said. “But it isn’t working. The shard is embedded.”

“Can you remove it?” said Aveline.

Anders’ brow furrowed. He swilled a draught of lyrium potion, and the healing spell brightened briefly with the mana boost--and then sputtered out. His thin fingers clenched together. Hawke shifted, his chest contracting with a ragged inhalation.

“Would you like him to die slowly or all at once?” snapped Anders.

“Take a breath,” said Varric. “Now explain. Better yet, don’t. Can we move him?”

Anders sighed deeply.

“There’s no choice. We’re practically breathing red lyrium here.”

“Then lift him under the arms. Support his head. I’ll get his legs,” Aveline declared matter-of-factly. As Guard-Captain, taking charge and giving orders came naturally to her. It gave her a sense of control and allowed her to maintain her focus, though in this situation she felt powerless, at a loss. She half-expected Anders to resist, as he was often wont to do when she was involved, but he didn’t utter a word. His expression was hollow, his eyes stricken. She wondered if it was mere concern for Hawke or an effect of the red lyrium dust in the environment, but his sudden reserve troubled her.

“Varric, you lead the way and keep your senses sharp for any threats in our path.”

Anders steadied himself and gently lifted Hawke, who was slipping in and out of consciousness. A jagged paroxysm of pain met the apostate's movements, but he held back a grimace and rose fully to his feet, purposefully adjusting the folds of his robes to hide the pulsating laceration slashed across the hollow of his ribcage beneath.


	7. Chapter 7

_Heartbeat thumping wildly, Hawke’s labored breath caught in his throat and coiled tight as a hangman’s noose. He felt as if he had been running full flight for days. The darkspawn . . . the hordes . . . ever in pursuit! He felt them inexplicably quicken their pace as his own began to slow from utter exhaustion. Hearing a desperate gasp directly behind him, Hawke turned to see his mother crumple to the dirt, three darkspawn rushing through the narrow passage, blades raised to cleave her wearied body. Before he could react, his sister appeared beside him, her nimble fingers casting a defensive swell of flames that rapidly enveloped the darkspawn._

_“Bethany. . .”_

_A raw grief tore at Hawke._

Is this real? Are _they_ real?

But Mother . . . we have to help mother! We _have_ to keep moving!

_The jagged rock walls surrounding him surreally strained against the firestorm. Hawke watched the stones themselves disintegrate, leaving behind great yawning chasms of red crystal. A piercing song rose from his throat and rent his skull apart._

“Aveline, wait. He’s waking!” Anders warned, stopping suddenly. Hawke’s neck arched in a violent spasm, the shard pulsating within hewn flesh, its veins spreading. His teeth clenched against sudden consciousness.

“Anyone care to lend a hand?” Varric’s voice echoed down the corridor from a short distance ahead, followed by a hideous chittering. “Mine are a bit busy with eight!”

Anders shot Aveline a knowing glance and braced his hold on Hawke as she withdrew, unsheathing her blade to rally against the onslaught of blighted arachnids.

“Don’t worry. I saved some for you!” Varric greeted her. He moved to wipe a ribbon of sooty slime from Bianca as a cluster of monstrous spiders skittered toward them. Aveline disposed of the first with a series of controlled swings.

“Are we nearly to the surface?” she said.

Varric released bolt after bolt, resulting in a chorus of satisfying screeches.

“We’re close. I’ll be happy never to see a stalactite again in my life.” He paused thoughtfully with the elimination of the remaining arachnids. “How’s Hawke doing?”

There was no need for a reply to the dwarf’s question. It came in the heartrending form of a hoarse cry of agony. Varric and Aveline sprinted back toward the mages.

“I’m so sorry. I have to send you back--” Anders fumbled with the lyrium potion. Hawke dug his fingers into the apostate’s wrist.

“My mother--” he groaned.

Anders watched him, wide-eyed. How could he send him back to the Fade? He couldn’t even begin to imagine what awful things lurked there, waiting for him, drawn by the red lyrium. But if he didn’t--

“You will not be lost, Hawke. I’ll come for you,” he swore, his words choked. “But you must-- The corruption is spreading too quickly.”

Anders forced the last of the lyrium potion through Hawke’s parched lips. The mage fought, swallowed. After a few ragged breaths, he fell again into unconsciousness.

"Blondie . . ."

“He’s dying, Varric,” Anders said. His fist closed around the empty glass phial, splintering it. A thin trickle of blood dripped to the cave floor. “He’s dying, and it’s my fault.”

Aveline tensed, and Varric eyed Anders closely. The dwarf felt relieved as no sign of Justice emerged, but briefly second-guessed his perception. Was there a hint of _red_ in the apostate’s eyes?

“Now that’s just defeatist,” he said, laying a reassuring hand on Anders’ shoulder. _It couldn’t have been . . ._ “Hawke’s far too contrary to die that easily, and we’re far too stubborn to let him. Right?”

Anders met his steady gaze and, after a hesitation, nodded. “Yes. We’ll bring him back. But we’ll need more lyrium potion--”

“Then let’s get the Void out of the damned Deep Roads,” said Aveline.


	8. Chapter 8

Each step that Anders made was an excruciating exercise in silent persistence. Increasingly feverish with the red lyrium poisoning, he felt his hold on Hawke begin to slip just as the daylit entrance to the Deep Roads became visible. Doggedly, he tightened his grasp and pushed onward, uttering not a word to his companions. 

“The good news is we’re mere paces away from the surface,” said Varric. He rejoined them after having dispatched a waiting arachnid and fell into step beside Anders. “The bad news is . . . I really don’t think this spider juice is going to wash out easily.”

On any other occasion, Anders would have appreciated the dwarf’s last-ditch humorous attempt to raise morale, but in this situation it fell on deaf ears. The heaviness of the apostate’s coat felt unbearable, its woven interior clinging to blood-smeared flesh. Tendrils of heat snaked their way across his abdomen from the open laceration, searing with each natural flex and stretch of muscle.

When Varric cast his glance to the side, he caught Anders in the middle of a wince. Immediately, he took note of the apostate’s weakening hold on Hawke and ducked in front of him to take his position.

Aveline was taken aback by the unexpected shift.

“Andraste’s-- Can we _not_ drop Hawke?” she said.

“Apologies,” said Varric. The dwarf was remarkably strong and managed Hawke’s heft with ease, even momentarily removing one hand to replace Bianca back across his shoulder. Anders dragged his fingers down the cavern wall to steady himself as they walked on.

“You okay?” Varric asked, arching an inquiring brow.

“It’s nothing,” said Anders. The veil of disorientation was gradually beginning to lift.

“You are terrible at bluffing,” said Varric. “Or has it slipped your mind how much coin you still owe me for our last round of Wicked Grace?”

“Well, I won’t very well be able to pay you back if you bore me to death with your questions,” said Anders. He attempted a smirk but failed.

A nearly inaudible groan escaped Hawke’s lips. Aveline waited, but thankfully he did not stir, so they marched forward. The earthy smell of rain-soaked topsoil and budding vegetation permeated the entrance to the Deep Roads.

“You’re going to come out with it. Now. Whatever it is,” said Varric firmly.

Anders paused at the entrance, his hand clasping the final curvature of rock and the intermingled tree roots beyond.

“You help me save Hawke, and I’ll tell you my life story. It might make for a marvelous--”

The whistling streamline of a thrown dagger rushed straight past Anders’ right ear, promptly cutting off his reply to the dwarf and a few loose strands of hair besides. Anders eyed the blade sticking out of the tree roots beside him and began to feel the slightest of regrets.

_Well, you knew this was likely . . ._


	9. Chapter 9

“You thieving cur! You filching sewer rat!”

The telltale heartwood and signature curve of the blade had instantly informed Anders as to its owner, even before she emerged from the underbrush in a flurry of directed-- _though not entirely unwarranted_ , he thought--insults.

Aveline had drawn her sword as the dagger spun past and had promptly lowered Hawke’s legs to the ground. However, as soon as she recognized the furiously advancing woman, she loosened her grip. Surely, there was an explanation . . .

“Isabela,” said Anders as meekly as he could manage. His eyes lifted to meet the tip of her second dagger as she leveled it at his face.

“Under other circumstances, I might applaud you on your pilferage--” she paused, her scowl briefly relaxing as she considered. “In fact, it _was_ rather clever . . .”

“Thank you?” Anders ventured.

The scowl immediately returned.

“Shut it! Not when it’s _my_ property. Now whose idea was it? Come now! You or that other guy?” Isabela shook the dagger at him impatiently. “And where’s the loot . . . _my_ loot?”

“There’s no loot,” said Anders.

“Bollocks!”

“There are more important matters at hand here,” Aveline interrupted.

Isabela scoffed, not turning from the cornered apostate. 

“He didn’t steal from you.”

“Rivaini . . .”

“Stay out of this, Varric,” said Isabela.

Anders raised both hands, signaling defeat.

“I confess! I borrowed the map--”

“ _My_ map!”

“Yes. _Your_ map--”

“And you _stole_ it. From my quarters. While I slept!”

“Yes. I’ll explain later--”

“Wait,” Aveline motioned from one to the other with her sword. “The two of you--?”

“No!” A simultaneous cry of protest rose from Isabela and Anders. The pirate couldn’t help but stifle a giggle following this. She lowered her dagger and mischievously slapped Anders across his now-flushed face.

“Not for any lack of trying,” she added with a wink toward the apostate. “He used to be much more fun. Must be the whole demon thing. And I’m not sure our fearless leader would appreciate sharing-- Wait. Where _is_ Hawke?”

For the first time since her boisterous arrival, Isabela turned her attention away from the target of her indignation. Upon observation of the Champion’s unconscious form, she tilted her head.

“Drunken Deep Roads?”

“Not quite as entertaining,” said Varric.

“You haven’t stolen any lyrium potions lately, have you?” asked Aveline.

“Do I look like a mage to you?” said Isabela. “Or a templar?”

Just as Aveline was about to interject with a pragmatic explanation that it was worth the inquiry, Isabela snapped her fingers with an eager burst of remembrance.

“I _did_ , however, skirt a small patrol camp a league back or so,” she said.

“Think they’d still be there?” asked Varric.

The pirate nodded.

“It’s urgent, Isabela. Tell me where they are. _Please_.” A startling desperation had edged into Anders’ voice. She looked up at him and tapped him on the jaw.

“Chin up and don’t be an ass. I already know where they are . . . and you're, well, _you_. I’ll run full tilt. The templars won’t even know their supply’s short.”

Isabela sprinted from the forest clearing, calling behind her, “But I still want my map back!”


	10. Chapter 10

A mere shadow of the fade spirit flitted in the back of Anders’ mind, its fusion still existing yet dissociated in such a way that the apostate had not known was possible. Was Justice repelled by the spreading red lyrium poisoning coursing through his corporeal veins? Were the effects on both body and mind something the spirit could or would not stand to bear? Had it withdrawn out of necessity or choice? Anders couldn’t be sure. The only thing that was straightforward about the situation was that, due to Justice’s distancing, the corruption was steadily spreading.

 _Yes, that and the_ pain _._

Anders attempted to mentally remove himself from the increasing agony, to focus solely on an objective diagnosis of the physical symptoms present as if he were simply one of his own patients back at his clinic in Kirkwall. This proved nearly impossible.

While Aveline and Varric together carried the still unconscious Hawke toward the opposite side of the forest clearing nearer the river’s edge, Anders quietly broke away from the group to examine his own injury. His abdomen felt as if it was splitting wide open and, in a feverish state of gnawing panic, he half-expected his vitals to be bursting forth from some gruesome evisceration. When he unbuckled his robes and peeled his tunic from the bloodied flesh beneath, he was thankful to find that this was not the case. The sight, however, was not much more reassuring. An expanding web of red lyrium veins issued from the exposed laceration, criss-crossing his stomach. He reached to a nearby tree for support as a swell of vertigo momentarily threw him off balance.

“Moping alone? You aren’t getting off that easy. Time to fess up. What’s going on?”

Varric had approached unnoticed and, though Anders had attempted to hastily close his robes, the dwarf was far too observant. He grimaced as if sharing the apostate’s pain.

“Holy nug shit, Blondie . . . How are you still _standing_?”

“With considerable concentration, actually," Anders admitted. "And there's a bit of a problem--" 

"That's putting it mildly.”

Releasing his hold on the tree, Anders’ knees began to buckle. Varric wrapped his arm around the apostate’s waist and steadied him.

“Take it easy . . . Does Justice have any bright ideas on how to beat this?”

“Well, that's the problem. Justice is . . . unresponsive. He seems to be warding off the corruption’s spread, but it’s also driven him back somehow. My spells are tainted without him.”

Varric had suspected the red lyrium was impairing the apostate’s spellcasting, but hearing of Justice’s silence was particularly foreboding. If the fade spirit was the only thing keeping Anders conscious, what hope was there for either him or Hawke to recover once the corruption inevitability proliferated?

Anders bolstered his strength. 

“We should see to Hawke.”

“Just take it slow, okay? No passing out on me.”

They began to cross the forest clearing, in pace with one another.

“Help me out here,” said Varric. “How is more lyrium potion going to help if your spells are . . . lacking their luster?”

“I have a plan,” said Anders. “I’m not sure if it will work, but it may be our only chance to save Hawke.”

"Are you going to keep me in suspense?" inquired Varric.

They had by that time reached the river’s edge. Aveline sat on her haunches nearby, soaking her blistered arms in the cool water. With a sharp intake of breath, Anders knelt beside Hawke, taking the Champion’s hand in his own and squeezing it fervently.

“I’m going into the Fade to find Justice.”


	11. Chapter 11

The snagging thickets were no match for Isabela’s nimble dodges and dagger slashes as she dashed back toward the forest clearing where she had previously left Hawke and his companions.

_Oh, but the look on that templar’s face . . ._

The pirate knew she had promised to swipe the lyrium potions without incident, but how could she possibly help herself?

The templars had only just finished ingesting their daily draught of lyrium and, therefore, had been at their most keenly focused--and arguably most dangerous. She had found them breaking camp for continuation of their assigned patrol. Dropping into stealth, Isabela had clung to the shadows and had observed the knight-captain’s every move, her gaze fixated on the two remaining glass phials dangling from his sword belt. 

Briefly, she had considered tossing an explosive flask into the group and catching them off-guard, but what fun would that have been? It was far more satisfying when she was able to successfully pilfer in plain sight. Though the knight-captain’s attention had wavered only slightly upon request for orders from one of his men, it had allowed more than enough time for Isabela to make her move. A subtle change in the breeze, an imperceptible tinkling of glass, and the phials were in her possession. It was almost too easy. Isabela had not been able to resist booting the knight-captain in the ass before making her undetected escape. 

She giggled softly to herself.

 _Anders will double up laughing when I tell him-- He’s been so insufferably moody lately,_ she thought. _Thieving bastard. He could use a chuckle. Or a lay._

Isabela had never understood why Hawke had fallen for the temperamental apostate and, to be perfectly forthright, she had initially been more than a little disappointed when the Champion had formally marked their union three years back. Who knew Hawke put any stock in ceremony? When she’d first met him, he surely didn’t come across as the kind of man who would pledge himself to anyone. He was impulsive and charming; there was a certain swagger about him. And, by the Maker, he was a beast under the sheets. They’d had their fair share of fun together over the years, but Isabella wasn’t one to hold a long-lasting grudge. Life was too short for such nonsense. Hawke had made his choice, and she had come to the realization that she only wanted to see him happy, and he did seem to be that.

Still . . . 

_Perhaps I should invite myself to the estate one night and surprise them . . . Would four be a crowd? Hawke might never recover._

Though only a passing jest, the pointed remembrance of the wounded Champion curbed her jocularity. 

_Hawke might never recover._

The possibility needled at her. Stubbornly, Isabela drove the thought back and raced onwards, clasping the glass phials tightly.

She was running out of breath and silently cursing the stitch in her side when the faintest sound of running water and muffled voices met her ears.

Even from a distance, it was abundantly clear to Isabela that the situation had already taken a turn for the worse. With each passing minute during her absence, the red lyrium poisoning had coursed through both of the mages’ bodies and gained an even stronger foothold. Their fevers had continued to increase at an alarming rate. As she approached, the heated exchange between Anders and Aveline became audible.

“We are to _coax_ the demon then? I’ll have no part in this,” Aveline declared, standing with her arms resolutely crossed.

“Are you not listening to a word I’ve spoken? We’re out of options or haven’t you bloody well noticed that?” Anders seethed. 

He was seated close to Hawke, almost in a languor, but struggled to rise and actively challenge her response. Anders didn’t look like himself one bit, and Isabela quickly recognized that it had nothing to do with the fade spirit he harbored. Upon notice of the corrupted veins laced across the mage’s abdomen and the evil crimson glow emanating from Hawke’s neck, the pirate was hit by the poignant realization as to the true nature of their affliction. She quickened her pace toward the group.

Anders was on his feet now and leaning for support on his stave, his thin frame trembling with the effort. He wiped a stream of sweat from his eyes and glared at the staunch Aveline, thin flecks of unnearthly red glinting within his irises. A void, a hollowness, tore through his core, but the song amplified to fill it. He had begun to hear its lulling melody only recently, and it called to him. It was an incessant whisper, and its message was hate--a white-hot hate and a hurt that could never be healed. It drew him nearer, pleaded for his acceptance and embrace, appealed to all for which he had ever stood. The Fade would bring him closer to it. It would make him more powerful than he could ever have imagined. He would hear the song in its entirety and finally be whole. He would finally find the truths he’d spent his whole life seeking.

“I don’t need your permission. And I don’t need your help.” Anders advanced toward Aveline. “You will not keep me from this. I will not let you take this from me. I hear it now-- Such clarity-- You won’t silence it-- I won’t allow it--”

Varric, who had previously been attending to Hawke’s wounds as best he could--in the very least to stanch the blood--heard the apostate’s words and immediately was hit in the gut with a despairing sense of deja vu. How many lives was red lyrium going to destroy? Why were the templars messing with this shit?

Anders was not backing down, his posture threatening. Aveline had drawn her sword. Varric leapt for him as he moved to attack her, to attempt to keep them both out of harm’s way, but the apostate sensed his response and swung his stave in a wide arc, catching the dwarf across the top of the skull and sending him flying backwards. Aveline readied herself for a fight.

Grunting, Varric lifted his throbbing head from where he had been thrown. He noticed Isabela’s approach and gestured to her, but continued to address Anders directly.

“You can’t let it take you, Blondie! Think of _Hawke_. You have to help _Hawke_. He’s counting on you, remember? He _needs_ you.”

Anders stopped dead in his tracks. He affect flattened, flared, and then cycled. The red flecks in his eyes dimmed slightly then crystallized in a thread of illumination before growing faint. Isabela pounced. She wrestled him to the ground, locking him in a submission hold and, though he struggled violently at first, his physical strength seemed to be gradually diminishing. 

“You owe me one, big girl,” said Isabela with a quick wink toward Aveline. The Guard-Captain scoffed, but held her blade at the ready in case Anders broke free. “Varric, the river. Water. The red lyrium . . . It slows down when it’s cold.”

The dwarf was impressed and a little confused. He’d worked with lyrium before, and he’d never heard of this. How did she--? But it didn’t matter. Mark that one up to ask her later--if there was a later. He quickly filled an empty flagon from the river and returned. Isabela grappled with Anders, pulling his robes open, and the dwarf poured the frigid mountain water down his exposed chest and stomach. Anders gasped; his breath quickened. The crimson slowly began to disappear from his eyes and his expression cleared.

“The lyrium--” Anders demanded. He swallowed a small portion of the lyrium potion Isabella handed him and, having taken notice of the cold water’s valuable effect, used the built mana to cast a thick layer of frost over Hawke’s and his own wounds.

“I don’t have much longer-- before it takes me-- I don’t know how long this will hold--” he panted. “The Fade. I must go now. Justice. We need to save Hawke.”

Varric sighed heavily and shook his head.

“By the beards of my ancestors, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but . . . I’m not letting you go in alone. You’re too vulnerable.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Isabela.

“Not in the least,” said Varric. “And you, Blondie? You know what you’re going to face in there. . .”

“I’ve an inkling,” said Anders. “If you do this, Varric . . . no matter what happens . . . you must not let me stray from our purpose.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Varric, adopting the most hopeful attitude he could muster under the circumstances.

“This isn’t a wise idea,” said Aveline.

“No. Probably not,” admitted Varric. “So are we ready?”


	12. Chapter 12

“I place my trust in your blades. If I fail, if the corruption takes me . . . You must end it. Promise me you will not allow Hawke to suffer my fate.”

Anders’ parting plea to Aveline and Isabela demanded their acknowledgment of the very real possibility that this particular venture might reach a fatal conclusion. He realized that the red lyrium infecting his mind would surely be a beacon to the most malevolent of demons, and he suspected what nightmares the Fade would weave for him--thoughts and memories he had spent a lifetime trying to forget, trying to _escape_. He felt a surge of gratitude toward Varric. If anyone besides Hawke could help him maintain focus, it was the dwarf.

“Bottoms up,” said Varric.

With a clink of the glass phials, Varric and Anders simultaneously downed the previously pilfered lyrium potions. The resulting swell of mana, directed by the apostate, encompassed them both and thrust them past the Veil. The forest clearing rushed from their awareness, and they were enveloped in what seemed to be a tempestuous windstorm. All physicality shifted, wavering between worlds. Time itself seemed to disintegrate.

Varric felt his resolve quiver. His throat burned from the ingested lyrium, and he concentrated on the sensation of pain as a focal point in order to remain calm. He squeezed his eyes shut, his internal dialogue churning.

 _Brilliant plan, Varric. You’re a dwarf! What were you thinking? The_ Fade _?_

All at once, the winds--if indeed they were such--ceased and an abysmal silence fell.

But, no. _Not_ silence.

Sounds were emerging from the quiescence, as if the entire world was reassembling itself. A lulling breeze, the melodious chirping of birds, the gentle rustling of wheat . . . and then the violent whoosh of a great flame and the crackling of fire.

Varric’s eyes flew open. He was standing alone in a vast Ferelden wheat field, half of which was entirely aflame. In the distance, through the haze of grey smoke billowing from the flames, a figure came racing toward him.

 _Anders. . .?_ thought Varric. However, upon further examination of the speedily approaching figure, the dwarf’s hopes were dashed - but for reasons even he at first failed to believe.

“Andraste’s ass, do you think anyone saw that?” the figure blurted out, his eyes wide and full of naive youthfulness. Too much youthfulness.

Varric stared at the boy before him and fought the sudden urge to laugh. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Skinny, sprightly yet full of a familiar nervy restlessness, and sporting a head of shaggy blonde hair that he kept thoughtlessly tugging at. His apprentice robes hung in tatters.

Oh, but this was no laughing matter. This was a serious problem.

“Blondie?” the dwarf ventured. _Please remember where - and who - you are._

The boy shot him a quizzical expression and then crowed in enthusiastic remembrance.

“Varric!”

Varric breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

“Do you recognize this place? Do you remember why we’re here?” he asked.

Eagerly, the boy nodded.

“Near Redcliffe. I think. I don’t know. I got a bit turned around when--” He paused, his countenance growing serious as the memories flooded back. He seemed to be oscillating between ages and settling somewhere in the middle, all temporality skewed as both boy and man navigated its transcience. “No, wait. That’s not right. Hawke-- The Fade-- This is the Fade, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so, kid,” said Varric.

“We’re the same age,” corrected Anders, his voice cracking. Varric couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. If he didn’t accept the preposterousness of the situation, he might just go mad.

A hoarse bellow sounded across the fields followed by the clamor of armor clanking. 

Panic flashed across Anders’ face, coupled with a steadfast earnestness. Instinct took over. He broke into a run toward the woods, yelling back over his shoulder, “Templars! Hurry! Come on!”

“No, wait!” the dwarf implored, but it was too late. Anders had disappeared past the edge of the forest. Varric hustled to catch up. The ancient trees seemed to close in on him. Just ahead, he could see Anders darting through the undergrowth. A faint light appeared at the boy's feet with every leap and dodge, as if his shadow were glowing an ethereal shade of blue that extended as far as one could see into the darkness of the forest. Justice. Of course! Their link still existed; the light would lead them to the dissociated fade spirit.

“Stop, kid, I need to-- catch my breath--” Varric huffed. Ahead of him, Anders hesisted and then doubled back to join the dwarf.

“But we have to run!” he pleaded.

“They’re not templars--” Varric began to explain. Anders wasn’t listening. He had unsheathed a small knife from his robes and was chopping handfuls of his hair off, smearing the rest with an odd-looking flower he’d crushed. Streaks of rusty red dyed the remaining blonde.

“What are you doing?” the dwarf asked.

“What do you think? I’m disguising myself!” Anders replied with a note of exasperation.

Varric gently grabbed both of his wrists, forcing him to stop.

“This is not real. Focus.”

His breath slowing, Anders gradually nodded in acquiescence.

“Yes . . . Of course. Yes, you’re right. Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t mention it. Let’s find Justice, okay?”

Anders moaned dramatically. “Do we _have_ to? He’s so _serious_.”

Varric raised a disapproving eyebrow.

“Sorry.” Anders cast his glance to the ground then hopped around, for the first time noticing the light at his feet. “Hey, look! Is this--?”

“Footpath to a certain missing fade spirit? I believe it may be, yes.”

“Well, what are we waiting for!” Anders cried. 

_I'm getting too old for this weird shit_ , mused Varric. Without thinking, he ruffled Anders’ tangled hair and let him lead them both in the direction of the blue light’s trajectory.

As they traced their way through the forest, the trees grew sparser and the underbrush thinned. Before long, they no longer wandered the woodlands of Ferelden. They no longer roamed in Thedas--or its equivalent--at all. Ominous cliffs of angular stone surrounded them on all sides. Fissures filled with raw blue lyrium intermittently bisected the rockface. Eternal night. The Void. On the distant horizon, the Black City loomed.

Despite this unsettling change in environment, Anders pushed on, though the dwarf was a bit taken aback when the boy abruptly clutched his hand upon first witnessing the stygian metropolis.

“Just keep following the light. I’m sure we’ll get out of here soon,” Varric assured him.

After what felt like a league or two, Anders paused and pointed at the blue light’s distant curve.

“I think-- I think we’re almost there!” he said and took a few steps forward. A thunderous cracking filled the air, reverberating against the jagged rock walls. The ground ruptured beneath their feet. An endless chasm split and spanned the length of the Void and, knocked off-balance, they both tumbled into its endless abyss.


	13. Chapter 13

It was as though they had plunged into the very depths of the sea, submerged in what seemed an engulfment of illusory flood waters. The crushing pressure was palpable against their tumbling bodies and overwhelmed their senses. Varric heard the boy cry out in fright--and then nothing. Darkness enveloped them both.

The dwarf groped for something, anything to slow down his fall. Time itself seemed to react to his fumbling desperation, and the headlong plummet began to lengthen in distance, lessen in speed, and eventually slacken to a gradual descent of aerial weightlessness. Overcome by nausea and an utter lack of physical control, Varric prayed for the reassuring feel of solid ground beneath his feet once more. It didn’t matter where or when or how . . .

The dwarf’s body suddenly accelerated in a wild rush downward--or was it _forward_?--and his swift descent concluded as abruptly and with as much of a jolt to the nerves as it had begun.

After a few minutes of readjustment to his sense of equilibrium, Varric was finally able to begin to get his bearings on the new location.

No solid ground had he found, but tangible enough surroundings: he was recumbent, stretched across . . . _a bed_? Blindly, he spread an open palm over the smooth cotton sheets, the woven quilt.

 _At least I hit something soft_ , he thought with a passing sense of relief.

When he opened his eyes, the diffuse glow of an overhead hanging lantern filled them. It shuddered slightly as, somewhere nearby, a boisterous peal of muffled laughter sounded, followed by an incredibly off-key chorus of rowdy voices attempting at a popular sea chanty. And failing miserably.

 _Is this . . . It can’t be . . ._ thought Varric.

But, sure enough, it could indeed be. The Pearl. The waft of salty ocean air intermingled with the bustling dock district’s aromatic assortment of fresh seafood was a dead giveaway.

With passing curiosity, Varric wondered if Isabela--or at least the Fade’s illusory reconstruction of her from Anders’ memory--was around. What year was it? More importantly, where was Anders? 

Snippets of past conversations resurfaced. Varric recalled Anders having mentioned a momentous escape from the Pearl a few times before, particularly when spending an accumulated amount of nights sans slumber. When Anders was adequately sleep deprived, he had the tendency to ramble, his meandering discourses often punctuated by animated gesticulations and uncontrollable fits of giggling and, occasionally, a drunk-worthy stumble from a chair or table. Varric found this scenario endlessly amusing, though its causation--once divulged by a tipsy Hawke--only served to solidify the fraternal drive of protectiveness he already felt toward the apostate. Upon first observation, Varric had assumed that, due to Justice’s disallowance of alcoholic frivolity, Anders had discovered another way to let himself loosen up now and then. In reality, Anders avoided sleep like the black plague when the nightmares were at their worst. Violent memories of the darkspawn intermittently bloodied his dreams, but it was far more often the case that Hawke would spend those countless hours calming Anders in the dead of a sleepless night to convince him that he was finally safe and swearing to him that he would never _ever_ allow the templars to touch him again. When it regarded his friends, Varric was the soul of discretion. Distraught, Hawke had realized the unintended disclosure the following morning, but the dwarf immediately put his mind at ease and swore never to speak of it with a soul. And he never had.

Varric frowned. He had a fairly solid idea he knew where to find Anders now. However, if this was an echo of that particular evening, the demons would soon be flocking. There certainly would be templars--or, more accurately, demons disguised as such--but Hawke was far from able to keep Anders safe as he’d promised so many times before. Varric guessed he would have to stand in for the Champion the best he could.

Another celebratory roar resounded. Varric slid off the bed and exited the room, careful to avoid the motley assortment of liquored up sailors and libidinous Denerim nobles who frequented the dockside brothel. Once or twice, an unsteady hand landed on his shoulder and beckoned him to join the next round. He hastily excused himself and continued to push his way through the crowded main hall toward the private rooms at its far end.

“You’ll have to pay first, darling.”

Varric recognized the proprietor’s deceptively honey-sweet voice, though he’d only heard it once before--when Isabela had dragged him along for a good time and had promptly gotten into an argument with the woman over the price of a “no-good, watered-down pint of piss ale.” Sanga was in fact a fairly reasonable businesswoman, but she had an edge one would be better off not provoking.

“Actually, I was invited--” he began formulating a quick excuse but was cut short by one of the more blusterous nobles flaunting a laden coin purse.

“Oh, let the surfacer have his fun, Sanga! It’s on me!”

“Very generous, milord.” Sanga nodded approvingly and turned to Varric. “Go ahead.”

Well, that was easy enough . . .

With a glance toward the main entrance, however, such reassuring thoughts vanished. The front door of the brothel opened as if on cue and Varric watched as a full patrol of templars joined the crowd. Except they weren’t templars. Not really. Varric could easily see past their deceptive mirage, though he wondered if Anders would. These were demons, the four making up the rear roiling amorphous lava and radiating rage and the knight-captain a pincered cognizance of fear.

Skirting the demons, Varric swung open the door to the first of the private rooms, was met by a series of startled screams as he peeked in, apologized, and moved to the last occupied room. With fingers crossed, he quickly entered the room and barred the door behind him.

“What--! Who in Andraste’s blood do you think you are, barging in--!”

Varric ducked as a flagon of wine was unsteadily flung toward his head and crashed into the door behind him. The launcher, a severe-looking fellow with sharp eyes and an even sharper jawline, rose to his feet, roughly shoving his companion to the ground, and fumbled to gather a pile of expensive finery previously tossed about the room. With a furious bellow, he then advanced on Varric. 

“I’ve paid for my time fair and square!”

Varric was in no mood to squabble with this noble. “Get out.”

“How _dare_ you--!”

“Get out!”

“Do you know who I _am_ \--!”

A swift arc of blue lightning checked any further exclamations, the electricity connecting squarely with the sensitive curve of the nobleman's exposed lower back.

“I believe he said, ‘Get out!’” The castoff companion, carelessly draped in a scanty assortment of silk scarves and silk scarves alone, faced them both and playfully rolled an anticipatory arc between his fingers. A smirk spread across his lips.

The man yelped in as high a pitch as any shriek’s signature cry even before another stream of electricity made contact with his flesh and, without delay, vacated the room.

“ _Varric_ . . . was it, yes? . . . Yes! Varric!” beamed Anders. He'd aged at least, landing somewhere in his late twenties. _Thank goodness for small favors_ , thought Varric.

Hastily, Anders grabbed his boots, hopping on one bare foot while buckling the other in, and launched into a full ramble. “It’s all coming back to me now. Bit by bit anyway. It’ll probably get easier to remember as we go on. I think. I believe. Makes sense. We’re in the Fade, yes? We were on our way to find Justice. We fell down a chasm, and--and-- Oh, thank the Maker, I’ve grown more than a few inches since then!”

“On that note,” Varric gestured toward the scarves. “You might want to start with pants.”

Anders paused suddenly, noticeably rankled. “Don't judge me. A man has to eat somehow.”

“No judgments here, Blondie! It’s only a matter of practicality. As in, if you don’t hurry up and get dressed, it’s _practically_ guaranteed you’ll take a blow beneath the belt in that less-than-utilitarian drapery. They’re _here_.”

A wan pallor settled in Anders’ face. 

“Templars?” he asked.

“Well, actually, demons, but--”

“It can’t be _that_ night . . .” 

It was as if Anders hadn’t even heard him. He was panic-stricken. He hopped into his second boot without a passing thought at buckling it, tossed his robes over his shoulder, all possibilities of escape again rapidly replaying in his head. Weren’t his memories fixed? Wasn’t the outcome fated?

“Did you hear me? It’s just your memory, and you escaped them before,” said Varric.

“We’re absolutely not going out there.”

“The reason being?”

“I’d rather not have that pleasant experience. Again.”

“You said they never even saw you.”

A pause. 

“I may have exaggerated.”

Varric shook his head, the realization hitting him.

“You never escaped the Pearl, did you?”

“Not precisely.”

“You fought back. Like that--”

“At least I was stylish--”

“And failed--”

“Miserably.” 

Varric squeezed his eyes shut, as if to suppress the notion of the Fade entirely, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he opened them again. It was.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me the truth?” he asked.

“You’re the storyteller. You tell me,” Anders quipped and then grew quiet. “It all went horribly wrong, Varric. After they caught me here, Greagoir . . .”

He trailed off, unwilling to recount anything further concerning the former Knight-Commander.

“ANDERS!” The templar’s voice boomed sonorously against the knotted wood of the room’s locked door. “WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

“D-do you think it’s all going to unfold exactly the same way?” Anders asked.

“You were alone then,” stated Varric resolutely. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

Anders eyed the weaponless dwarf’s readied battle stance and summoned the first traces of a blooming fireball.

“Then let’s kick some templar ass,” he declared.


	14. Chapter 14

If it hadn’t been for the whole failing-miserably-only-to-be-recaptured-by-the-templars-and-endure-a-year-of-unimaginable-torment piece of it, Anders realized that that night at the Pearl could very well have been the stuff of legends. Not even the patronizing, complicit bastard of a First Enchanter Irving would have been able to turn his stodgy old attention from such a skillfully efficient, not to mention aesthetically pleasing, takedown. Outnumbered five to one. No stave or other weapons besides. In an unfortunate state of undress. Suffering stabbing hunger pangs. Considerably hungover. 

Following his sixth escape attempt from Kinloch Hold, Anders had been on the run for nearly a week before landing at the Pearl and hiding in plain sight, so to speak, so he could earn enough coin to book passage across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall. This same plan in its various incarnations, repeated during his last two attempts, had failed. He’d had higher hopes of achieving success this time around and, for a while, he truly believed that Karl was finally within reach--that this was _it_ , this was _finally it_. What an idealistic ass he’d been. When did good things ever happen to runaway mages? It was as if Fate, along with the rest of Thedas, was against him every step of the way. Mocking him.

Not this time. This was like being handed the opportunity to revisit a pivotal crossroads from your past in order to skip straight past the well-worn path to self-destruction . . . or was it?

Anders felt like he was waking from a dream. For a fleeting moment, all realization of the Fade had dissolved.

_No. What’s done is done. There is no way to change the past. This is the Fade. Nothing matters here except finding Justice. Saving Hawke. Fight the demons; follow the light. That’s all that matters. Focus. Focus. Focus. . . ._

It was like a mantra. _Focus. Focus. Focus._

Succumbing to the heavy onslaught of armor being repeatedly rammed against it, the barred door began to splinter down the center. Somewhere further down the main hall, Sanga vociferously demanded prompt payment from the templars for the damage being wrought upon her establishment. The proprietor’s exclamations of outrage did not deter the templars in the slightest, and why would they? The demons could _feel_ the red lyrium radiating from the afflicted mage, its presence chumming the waters of the Fade to stir the preternatural predators into a frenzy. On this side of the Veil, the red lyrium did not retain the same physical properties or effects. Though it did not render Anders incapacitated, its malevolence was infectious, its overwhelming power something any demon would covet.

With an explosion of fractured wood, Anders and Varric found themselves entirely exposed to the demonic assault. Though the fiends’ physical manifestation vacillated between man and monster in the dwarf’s perception of them, to Anders they were templars and templars only. A specific patrol of templars, even--the last patrol he’d been entirely vanquished by all those years ago.

“You thought you’d actually make it to Kirkwall this time, did you? Look at yourself, swine,” the knight-captain surveyed the mage as he stepped into the room and scoffed. “Sickening. Vile. Pathetic.”

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

“I’m sorry, am I distracting you, Bastiann?” said Anders. “Care to ogle a bit longer or are you merely postponing your inevitable defeat?”

Bastiann snarled. Satisfied with this expected response, Anders moved quickly, casting the swollen fireball past the knight-captain’s head and whooping in triumph as it handily enveloped two of the templars in the rear. The remaining two rushed forward in response only to meet Varric’s readied fists. With a hammer to the collarbone followed by a devastating hook to the chin, the dwarf suddenly only had one templar to contend with.

Temper flaring, Bastiann charged at Anders. The apostate nimbly sidestepped, unwinding one of the scarves from his torso as he did so, and garroted him with it; in one successive motion, he looped, then twisted it around the knight-captain’s neck and drove him to the ground with a vicious yank. A choked gurgle escaped Bastiann’s throat. He fiercely grappled against Anders who was now bearing his entire weight against the templar, pinning him down and wringing the scarf to its fullest constriction, silk biting into flesh. Anders grinned wickedly at the still-struggling knight-captain, a crimson gleam in his eyes, the lyrium infection screaming for fatal savagery and thirsting for blood. _And why not_ , its song soothed. _These men took everything from you. Your family. Your innocence. Your love. Your life. They will take it all. They will continue to hunt you. Like an animal. Until they gut you for good. Leave you hollowed out. Lost. Empty._ Tranquil _._

"No!" Anders howled. His grip slackened, his mind torn by fear and hatred.

Varric landed a final series of staggering jabs to the second templar, dropping him with a jaw-fracturing uppercut, and glanced backwards. The moment’s hesitation from his attacker afforded Bastiann an edge. He bucked wildly, throwing Anders off-balance, and slammed his armored knee upwards into the apostate's lower abdomen. The red lyrium shrieked, flaring; a searing pain ripped through Anders' body. He buckled. The subsequent blow to the back of his head went nearly unnoticed as the world muted, greying. As if from a distance, he felt Bastiann’s clammy fingers on his scalp, felt them catch a clump of his disheveled hair and wrench his neck back.

“I’m so tired of your games, Anders,” the knight-captain managed to sputter in the apostate’s ear, his swollen windpipe bruised and straining in use.

Anders detected the rattle of a belt buckle above him, the only hint at the near-silent unsheathing of a cold blade.

This _is it._ This _is finally it. Had I known it would end this way all along? Had it always_ been meant _to end this way?_

If, at that very moment, the Pearl had not erupted in a torrent of white-hot flames, it very well might have.


	15. Chapter 15

The waiting was excruciating and, by far, the worst part of the entire ordeal. 

At least it was for Isabela.

 _Give me something to fight_ , the pirate moaned internally, though her outward expression remained collected as ever - for the first hour at least. She had always loathed the feeling of helplessness, specifically when coupled with utter inaction. Following Anders’ and Varric’s descent into the Fade, both she and Aveline had hovered over their inert bodies and keenly kept an eye for any physical alteration or hint of awakening. So far, there had been absolutely none. Without fully recognizing her mounting agitation, Isabela had begun to pace the clearing. The Guard-Captain, meanwhile, had remained unwaveringly observant.

“Settle down, Isabela. You’ll addle your concentration and be of no use,” Aveline finally remarked.

Barely listening to her words but responding rather to the break in the silence, Isabela sprinted back.

“What’s happened? Have they stirred?”

Aveline sighed but did not avert her eyes from her unconscious companions.

“No, I was merely saying--”

The Guard-Captain paused.

“What?” demanded Isabela, but no verbal explanation was needed.

Anders’ eyes had flown open, and they were ablaze with a bloodmoon glow. The patchwork of red lyrium spreading across his abdomen pulsed angrily beneath the thawing frost.

“Is he . . . awake?” asked Isabela.

Aveline, blade in hand, shook her head.

“No. But this may not bode well for their progress. We must remain vigilant.”

“Ready for action, then! I was getting a trifle bored anyway.”

\---

He’d closed his eyes and waited for the blade’s raw edge, for the blood to drain from the gaping wound in his severed neck, when suddenly . . . _WHOOSH!_

It was all very familiar somehow. Anders certainly _heard_ the roar of the uncontrollable firestorm that swirled about them, encircling them, but there was strangely no trace of heat emanating from the flames. Well, this was the Fade after all. Perhaps the elements didn’t operate the same way here?

But no. 

When Anders opened his eyes, his neck still forced at a sharp backwards angle, Bastiann was staring straight down at him--though the knight-captain’s skin had begun to sizzle. Flames danced across the templar’s body, broiling flesh and charring the bones beneath. Anders felt the hold on his hair slacken as Bastiann’s arm itself withered in the blaze. Around him, he could see The Pearl, and all within, disintegrate amidst the roiling inferno. How was he unscathed and, more importantly, where was Varric?

Just as it had begun, without warning or prediction, the firestorm ceased. The Pearl was entirely incinerated, the ground upon which Anders lay a cool swath of sand--still and undisturbed. It was as if nothing had ever been built upon it.

Anders instinctively found himself shouting, “A warning would have been nice!” and he had absolutely no idea why. He rolled over onto his stomach and peered down the shoreline. Varric!

A few paces away, the thankfully unmarred dwarf stood, stunned.

“What _was_ that? You’ve never recounted your adventures of _burning alive_ before, Blondie.”

“I can’t imagine I have, no, seeing as this never happened. I should be dragging my shackles with Bastiann about now,” said Anders. “Blast! But this would have been quite the tale to establish my budding reputation. _Maleficar razes crowded brothel with bottled dragon fire_. Either the templars would have stopped hunting me out of sheer terror, or I’d never have made it out of Denerim with my limbs intact.”

With a helping hand from Varric, Anders hobbled to his feet.

“That gut-punch, though. I’d rather not have relived that. I wasn’t able to keep much of anything down for a month,” the apostate recalled. “Not that I got much of anything, so it all worked out.”

Varric surveyed the landscape. Very odd indeed. The deserted shoreline was understandable, what with The Pearl having been in the docks district, but what was that greenery in the distance? Where the sand ended a verdure pasture spread forth. Meticulously trimmed hedges and ornamental shrubbery flanked the pasture’s edges. Within these borders lay a vineyard in full bloom, screens of vine leaves obscuring the view beyond. The sweet aroma of blooming grape clusters, ephemeral and subtle, mingled with the salty ocean air. What was happening? Were they in The Heartlands?

As if reading Varric’s thoughts, Anders shrugged dramatically, genuinely confused.

“I’ve never been to Orlais before. I swear on Andraste’s knickers.”

Varric couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d forgotten for a moment that the apostate’s age hadn’t quite caught up to him. The Anders standing before him now was still a bit of a fledging in many ways, though his memory seemed to have increasingly improved. 

_Yes, but, even though he may_ remember _being a Grey Warden or a renegade mage in Kirkwall, he doesn’t seem to _feel_ it. It hasn’t happened yet. Here, that is, _ Varric reminded himself, attempting to wrap his mind around the Fade's multilayered temporality.

The fact of the matter was that the demons were only getting started . . . but had something--or someone--pushed them back?


	16. Chapter 16

“Well, this isn’t much of a nightmare, is it?” noted Anders, now fully redressed, his fingers lightly playing across the trail of serrated grape leaves as they made their way down one of the vineyard’s established rows. The blue shadow-glow connected to the distant Justice remained, its narrow elongation leading their way forward.

“Just keep your eyes peeled. I’m not interested in making new and terrible friends with the beasties here, and we have no idea what’ll leap out at us. Especially since none of this is familiar to you,” said Varric.

“It truly isn’t. It’s not my memory.”

“Than whose is it?” pondered Varric aloud. “That’s what bothers me.”

A quick series of barks sounded nearby, three sharp monosyllabics as if a warning of some kind.

Varric looked spooked. Anders, on the contrary, seemed to become reinvigorated. He listened attentively.

“It _can’t_ be . . .” he murmured, trailing off.

“Can’t be what?” asked Varric.

Now shifting their point of origin, as if the animal were circling the two companions, the ensuing canine cries took on a chattering quality.

Unexpectedly, the apostate beamed.

“It _is_ him! It _has_ to be!”

Varric rubbed at his stubble. Had the mage suffered a more severe wallop to the skull than he’d originally let on?

However, now standing before them in the center of the vineyard’s row, its dusky fur thick and glossy, its left ear mangled and long-since scarred, was a sleek silver fox. It yipped at Anders, springing into the air. Its white-tipped tail flipped excitedly with each subsequent bound.

“I can’t understand you. You have to change back,” said Anders, directly addressing the animal. He gesticulated what to Varric looked like an obscure esoteric invocation but could have just as easily been the first signs of a psychotic break.

“Are you talking to a _fox_? Is that a demon? Are we--are we fighting?” stammered the dwarf, perplexed.

The fox cocked its head curiously.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Anders!”

Varric was becoming increasingly worried for the apostate’s constitution when a magnificent burst of illumination radiated from the fox, flaring brightly and dissipating--along with the animal itself. Left in the fox’s stead was no wild beast but a man. In the instant of transformation, he was crouched low to the ground, one open palm resting on the sand, but rose thereafter and approached them both. He was dressed modestly in weathered drakeskin armor that had certainly seen better days. Despite the well-worn nature of his attire, however, it appeared fastidiously maintained, as did the rest of his appearance. Not a hair was tucked out of place; in fact, in comparison to Anders’ tousled mane, this man’s lengthy raven locks were fashionably gathered in an intricate braid that would have been acceptable--if not admired and immediately copied--in the Orlesian court itself. 

Startled, Varric readied himself for a battle. 

Anders simply chuckled.

“He always scared the living void out of me, too. I’m just glad he wasn’t his _spidery_ self. Never a warning with this one, old Fire and Ice here. Just - WHOOSH! and we’re trudging through blizzards and . . .” The apostate paused. “. . .and _firestorms_! Of course! It was _you_ at the Pearl! You cast the barrier!”

“ _Anders?_ ” inquired the man incredulously, haltingly. “Is it truly you? The others-- I was told--”

“They said I was dead,” said Anders.

“Yes. They said you-- but no--” He shook his head. “ _No_. You’ll not deceive me. Remove your guise, demon. I’ve more important matters to deal with than your trickery.”

“I’m no demon, Commander. I swear. It’s me in the flesh,” said Anders. “More or less.”

Varric’s eyes widened a bit. He felt his heart briefly flutter with excitement at the suggestion of the stranger’s identity, though he would never have admitted it. Ever-perceptive, the dwarf had previously noted the slightest hint of an Orlesian accent as soon as the man had begun to speak, though it was clear he had spent many years working to mask it.

 _This man’s clearly not from Kirkwall, so he can’t possibly be_ the _Warden-Commander, the Hero of--_

“Meet the Hero of Ferelden, Varric,” said Anders proudly. “A _mage_ , mind you.”

Anders and the man had apparently continued conversing while Varric was lost in enthusiastic thought because, when the dwarf finally returned to the exchange, there seemed to be a reestablished ease between them as comrades-in-arms unexpectedly reunited.

The Warden graciously extended a hand to the dwarf in greeting. “Ambroise. Any friend of this fool’s is a friend of mine.”

Varric eagerly shook the offered hand. Why concern himself with accents? At least for the time being such trivialities were to be dismissed.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Warden-Commander--” started the dwarf.

“Just Ambroise, please.”

“Ambroise. Ser. Why are you here? In the Fade?” asked Varric.

“Research,” said Ambroise, without a word more on the matter. “Though Anders here is attempting to recruit me to your current mission. Who are you trying to find exactly?”

The apostate swooped in before Varric could respond. He was uncertain how his former Commander would react to the revelation of Justice--not only to the fade spirit’s continued existence but, more importantly, to the current reality of his _coexistence_. He suspected Ambroise would not approve. Perhaps it was better not to mention it until absolutely necessary.

“A friend,” said Anders hastily. “We encountered some red lyrium. He’s been badly injured. We’re scouting him out to heal him from within the Fade itself.”

 _A “friend”?_ thought Varric, pained by the apostate’s passionless mention of Hawke and, suddenly, poignantly, the dwarf began to miss the Anders he knew so well--the rebel healer he’d befriended in Darktown, the man who only hours prior had been neurotically frantic over Hawke’s predicament. Varric desperately hoped that the Fade’s skewed temporality would achieve an equilibrium once more and that Anders' memories would realign with his emotions--and fast. If anything had a chance of getting through to Hawke, it would be Anders’ unconditional love for and devotion to the fallen Champion. Without that, would they be able to find Hawke at all?

Gently, Ambroise placed a hand on Anders’ shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.

“You have never lied to me, my friend, and you are holding something back. You needn't as it is no matter. I will join you as you request, and we will pull your friend safely from the brink.”


	17. Chapter 17

For what seemed hours but was in all likelihood a span of minutes, the three men strode onward side by side toward the distant light, weaponless yet prepared for the worst. Varric eagerly listened to his companions’ conversation but did not intervene. 

Following a stream of questions directed at his former Warden-Commander, all of which Ambroise patiently addressed, Anders had then proceeded to repeatedly and in intervals hold up a finger as if having at that moment remembered an additional piece of information desired, but said nothing more. Instead, he turned his gaze downwards and remained silent.

By the time they reached the edge of the expansive Orlesian vineyard, Ambroise could no longer handle the apostate’s palpable bout of brooding.

“Clearly, you’ve still a nagging question. Now is the time to get it off your chest,” said Ambroise.

Anders sighed.

“After Amaranthine . . . why did you abandon us? Things were never the same, you know. Nate left. The other Wardens-- _Rolan_ \-- We didn’t get along,” he said and added bitterly, “They forced me to give up Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

Varric had heard this lament before--oh, so many times before--and he knew the seriousness of the charge to Anders. He eyed the Warden to gauge his response. Ambroise appeared contemplative.

“Surely, that isn’t why you killed them?” he finally asked. No judgment edged his question, only a mild curiosity.

“I didn’t--!” Anders snapped back, defensively. But this wasn’t the truth, was it? He _had_ killed Rolan, along with the other Wardens accompanying him. He--and Justice--had torn them apart. It had been a massacre. He felt a hot shame creep into his soul. 

Varric was a bit taken aback. He had known the apostate had deserted the Wardens but never the situation in which that occurred. Anders had always said that after Justice and he merged there had been “complications.” _‘Complications,’ indeed._

Ambroise’s subsequent reply surprised both the dwarf and the apostate and stopped them dead in their tracks.

“I don’t believe your decision was the most . . . informed,” he said. “But I understand why you ultimately chose to make it, and I don’t fault you for it. Justice could be quite persuasive.”

“How did you--?” Anders blurted out.

Ambroise shrugged mildly.

“I assumed as much when I was told of the murders, of the details of your apparent death. I suppose I always suspected--held hope--that you had escaped with your life. One more time, yes? Before now, I never had proof of the accuracy of my suspicions.”

“And you’re still going to help us?” asked Varric.

“Of course. Justice was my friend as well,” Ambroise said and then turned back to Anders, “It was a dangerous choice, but whatever he has become--whatever you have become together--who am I to condemn you? We all make the worst of sacrifices for our causes if we think them just. But I should have been there . . . to try to convince you otherwise. I’m sorry I was not.”

“It likely wouldn’t have mattered,” admitted Anders.

“Then we focus on what matters this instant,” said Ambroise. “Your friend.”

 _Hawke_. Anders felt a surge of desperation in his heart. The thought of Hawke--lost in his own nightmares, dazed by red lyrium, reaching out for him--made him sick with an anguish stretched to the core.

“This leads to Justice, does it not?” interrupted Ambroise, motioning the ribbon of blue light. 

Anders nodded--but the ribbon was rapidly falling into shadow. The entire landscape darkened around them, an eclipse spreading gloom and obscurity. In moments, the light--and the three men--were swallowed whole.


	18. Chapter 18

The pervading smell of spent lyrium drifted toward Anders. Templars.

He knew they were there before he could even so much as glimpse them through the descended darkness. 

_No, wait, that’s not quite right, is it?_

Crestfallen, he realized that this was not darkness from any external source; his eyes were blindfolded. 

A rush of sensations overwhelmed him. All at once, the searing pain in his abdomen returned and his wrists now felt like they were on fire. He twisted against the fibrous ropes that bound him, tugging at the iron shackle hanging high above to which the coils were secured. Grimacing, he cast a weak fireball that blossomed in his open palm, only to sputter out.

“If only Greagoir would let us take his hands. Put an end to all this nonsense,” a raspy voice echoed in the cell--for a cell it was, and a cell Anders knew well enough. The strained voice he recognized, too. Bastiann. They were back in Kinloch Hold, and he’d heard this conversation before. 

_Well, these demons are crafty little shits, aren’t they?_ thought Anders, dismayed.

“Or his legs. The old bastard must enjoy watching us run after him,” another voice chimed in. Gruff. Deep.

In vain, Anders yanked at the ropes. Unfortunately, when situations appeared most dire, the apostate had a truly terrible habit of making them worse.

“You’ll be perfectly sorry you called him that, Dederic. He’ll have you strung up beside me in no time. We can be cellmates,” Anders quipped. “The cot closest the wall is mine. Better view.”

“Well, we can’t maim him _permanently_ ,” Bastiann said to Dederic, ignoring the apostate’s flippant remarks.

In five seconds flat, an armored fist slammed against Anders’ lower abdomen. He inhaled sharply and began retching. The unmistakable taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat it out - and grinned.

\---

_“Sorry, brother!”_

It was an old wound, one Varric would have rather not had reopened. He could hear Bartrand’s cruel farewell echo deep down the corridors of the Primeval Thaig as he exited - just after locking his younger brother within the vault itself. The betrayal still stung. The Fade had recreated the memory with such detail that it was slightly difficult for Varric to remain focused on its illusory nature. The only striking difference was that, this time around, the dwarf was not a member of an expedition. He was utterly alone. 

Where were Anders and Ambroise?

 _They’re separating us. Making us lose focus. Nasty tactics,_ thought Varric. _Well, they_ are _demons. Too bad for them dwarves are persistent beyond reason._

With that, Varric began to scan the walls of the vault, seeking out any weaknesses on which he could launch a physical assault. 

From somewhere outside, a wild howl of laughter sounded.

\---

Ambroise never thought he would hear that laugh again--unrestrained, gasping for air, like an animal snared in a trap and working itself to exhaustion. There was no merriment suggested by its piercing resonance; only pain. 

The Warden had heard it only once before, deep within the Lower Reaches of Kal’Hirol. Directed by The First, the advanced darkspawn had ambushed their party with great violence. Nathaniel had been rendered unconscious; Oghren badly wounded. Ambroise himself had been staggered and roused to witness the darkspawn dragging Anders into the depths of the Reaches. The Warden had raced after him, but when the tunnels further narrowed and the blackness thickly loomed, the mad laughter echoed and sent icy chills up his spine. 

Anders had always had difficulty with claustrophobic tight spaces, and their missions underground were an endless source of mounting anxiety for him. In fact, it always seemed as if the apostate was on the very precipice of a fullblown panic when they traveled the Deep Roads. Often, Ambroise dismissed him from such missions. That day, he wished he had done so. 

By the time he caught up with Anders, the darkspawn, though noticeably bewildered by the apostate’s manic reaction to his predicament, had swarmed him. It took Ambroise multiple tempestuous spellcasts to thin the darkspawn horde in order to reach the captive apostate. When the laughter abruptly ceased, Ambroise had feared the worst--a fear that had very nearly come to pass. Anders had been out of commission for weeks following the attack, refusing to leave the Keep even after his wounds had healed, and Ambroise had always felt a pang of guilt for eventually ordering him back on duty.

_Keep at it, Anders. You’ll lead me directly to you. They’ll not overwhelm you again, not if I have anything to say about it._

Ambroise surveyed the tunnels in which he had been separated and noted the distant roar of darkspawn approaching. Of course the demons would select such a memory to actualize. What they didn’t know was that the Deep Roads never bothered Ambroise much; in fact, he had grown to realize that the darkspawn were the least of his--and Thedas’--worries. There was something much larger approaching and, if Ambroise had any sway left with the Wardens, he would convince those who mattered most to take arms against the new threat. For now, though. . .

With a proficient recalculation of his circumstances, Ambroise decided upon the most advantageous of transformations to undergo. In moments, he was thundering through the maze of tunnels in a far more formidable form--a furious Bereskarn, slick protruding spikes soon to be drenched in darkspawn blood.


	19. Chapter 19

“You’ll never break me!”

Anders knew this was a blatant lie--he could feel his body breaking already--but the lies he told himself had kept him alive before. As long as he could hang onto the half-truths and self-deceptions, he could believe in the possibility of a better future, a future different from the one he’d always feared would inevitably come to pass.

He felt the screaming laugh rise again in his throat. There was a numb abstraction to it, a distance, as if someone else besides himself were shaping the noise and forcing it through bruised lungs and past fractured ribs. Every forced articulation caused its own variation of pain, but it kept him focused. The laughter allowed him to struggle through the fog of half-consciousness and to maintain awareness despite the cognitive distance he had created out of survivalistic necessity. He’d learned from experience that if he could not anesthetize the physical through some form of practiced internalized denial, it would overwhelm him.

Another armored blow landed; another manic peal of laughter erupted. 

The pain meshed together as one blinding bolt and clouded Anders’ vision. Despite Bastiann’s removal of the blindfold, all that was visible to the apostate was a blur of crystalline red. Hungrily, the lyrium infection fed on the hate raging within him.

“Oh, we’ll break you yet, swine,” Bastiann promised and took a step back to allow for Dederic’s involvement. 

The subsequent snap was markedly audible as Dederic made brutal contact with the bridge of the apostate’s nose. Anders’ howl became blood-choked.

A swell of apathy washed over Anders, another strategic denial. He strained his vision against the dissipating crimson veil, but the heat had settled in his core, sweltering.

“Give up, boys. There’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t been done already,” Anders spat thickly. Another lie.

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

“Are you quite sure about that?” a new voice postulated. Its austere tone held an authority that, to many, just hearing it was enough to instantly quell any insolence.

Instinctively, the apostate cowered and despised himself for it.

\---

Isabela had been ready for action--daggers at the ready, rushed with adrenaline, prepared to tackle anyone as necessary. When the red in Anders’ eyes had died out, however, she had become a bit sulky.

“This is _unbearable_ , doing _nothing_ , ” the pirate groused.

Although she never would have admitted it to herself--or anyone else for that matter--Isabela couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement upon seeing the red flecks reappear.

Aveline tightened the grip on her blade once more as Anders stirred.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” the Guard-Captain said.

Though his mind remained deep in the Fade, Anders groaned softly. The frost encasing his wounds had nearly melted, and a thin rivulet of blood had begun to trickle from his nose.

“Not to state the obvious, but that’s not reassuring, is it?” said Isabela.

“No, it isn’t,” Aveline agreed. “Check Hawke again.”

The pirate glanced over at the fallen Champion.

“His infection looks stable enough. For now. But when that frost melts away-- Well, I may have the magic touch and you may be a cold fish, big girl, but we’re not about to rouse a snowstorm in the palms of our hands any time soon.”

Aveline nodded. On any other day, the pirate’s consistent jesting would have bothered her. Not today. Isabela was right. They had no means of creating the wintry conditions in which the red lyrium could be stagnated--but they did have the river. Would it be enough? 

They had to try. For Hawke.

“The lyrium is burning him up from the inside,” said Aveline, motioning toward Anders. “Help me carry him to the water.”

“We’re going to dunk him in?” asked Isabela.

“We’re going to keep him alive.”

\---

Varric felt as if he were breaking out of prison, one chip at a time. It was slow-going but _persistence pays off_ , he reminded himself. The walls of the vault were solid, but the dwarf had immediately detected a skittering crack in one of them and, with each subsequent pummel of stone on stone, it had begun to rapidly expand. 

When Anders’ distant laughter had ended, Varric had gathered what little strength he had left and redoubled his efforts. A thin beam of what appeared to be torchlight shone through from the opposite side as the wall slowly collapsed.

What the dwarf hadn’t been expecting was a veritable _explosion_ as the wall collapsed inward . . . as if pushed from the other side, which indeed it had been. The dwarf was tossed backwards and roughly landed in a pile of rubble. When he looked up again, coughing against the settling dust, he found himself eye-to-eye with a corrupted great bear, its filmy white eyes rolling and thick spikes dripping black blood.

“Get back, you blighted bastard!” yelled Varric, brandishing a makeshift shiv of shattered stonework.

Unfazed, the bear rose on two feet, pawing at the air in front of him, and emitted a blazing white light.

“Of all the-- sod it all!” gasped Varric, taken aback, as he again witnessed Ambroise’s transformation from beast to man. “You _don’t_ give warnings, do you?”

“I’m terribly sorry. I tend to forget-- well, how I appear to people sometimes,” admitted Ambroise.

“How could you possibly--” said Varric. “No, doesn’t matter. All’s forgiven. Any idea where to go from here?”

“The tunnels aren’t as large as they appear to be. It’s an illusion. Everything’s closely connected here. Anders is nearby.”

“Lead the way, Warden. Let’s just find Blondie--and fast.”


	20. Chapter 20

Anders’ vision settled, the fog clouding only his peripheral awareness. Greagoir stood directly before him, but a breath away--a dragon amongst men.

“Are you quite sure there’s _nothing_ you have to lose, boy?” He posed the question again. When no answer was given, as was expected, Greagoir reached out to the cowering apostate and smoothed back the bedraggled hair that hid his blood-smeared face. Anders recoiled at the Knight-Commander’s touch, but the ropes held him fast. Greagoir frowned.

“Cut him down,” he ordered.

Bastiann paused, dismayed.

“Ser?”

Greagoir unsheathed a small heraldic dagger.

“The mage must learn to whom he rightly belongs.”

\---

Though Isabela was at first reticent to leave Hawke’s immediate side, she could plainly see that whatever Anders was facing in the Fade was having an immediate impact on the red lyrium’s rising temperature. Upon assisting Aveline in carrying him, she had initially drawn back, startled, when his robes were brushed to the side--his exposed skin felt as if it was on fire.

“One, two, three, then heave him as far as possible into the water?” the pirate inquired playfully as they arrived at the river’s edge. Aveline, however, was in no frame of mind to appreciate the jest.

“Of course not, but his robes are going to drag against the current no matter. I need to remove them,” she said.

“Well, well, big girl’s not such a prude after all. Pants, too?”

“ _No._ Just hold him up, will you?”

Isabela wrapped an arm around Anders’ waist, balancing his dead weight against her solid stance. As Aveline peeled the blood-soaked robes away from his infected abdomen and unbuckled the rest to remove them in their entirety, she caught sight of a jagged scar crudely carved into his lower back: the flaming sword of the templars.

Isabela noted her troubled pause.

"Barbaric," Aveline finally said, faltering. “I’d heard rumors before-- stories-- of the templars-- but I never believed . . .”

“And that's why they get away with it,” said Isabela.

Aveline set her jaw. Perhaps the apostate had been right. Perhaps she did turn a blind eye to the mages' plight. _Well, not anymore. Not under my watch. I'll not allow such abuses in my city,_ she decided, determined to challenge any such corruption present in Kirkwall upon her return.

Together, the two companions entered the river and pulled Anders into the frigid current, holding his head above water. The pulse of the red lyrium swelled--and, thereafter, gradually decreased. A faint blue glow tinged its outer edges.

\---

Quite possibly, this was the strangest thing Varric had ever done. _And that’s saying something_ , he thought.

He was riding a griffon. No, strike that. He was riding a Grey Warden--and not just _any_ Grey Warden, either.

He imagined himself retelling this unbelievable adventure to Isabela back where time and place stayed put as they were meant to and meeting her inevitable reaction.

_No, not like that, Rivaini._

The bulging muscles of the powerful creature on which Varric sat rolled in smooth contraction as it raced down the inky corridors of the Fade-constructed Deep Roads. Awkwardly, the dwarf attempted to keep his hands to himself but, in order to keep his balance with each jarring twist and turn, he couldn’t help but repeatedly cling to the feathery wings folded neatly on either side of him.

“It will be fine,” Ambroise had assured Varric. “Just be careful with the feathers, yes?”

The dwarf had reluctantly agreed, recognizing that it would be the speediest mode of transport toward the captured apostate. However, this realization did not make the experience any less unusual--or nerve-racking.

As they rounded the next blind corner, the griffon emitted a sharp shriek.

“Oh--!” Varric immediately released the fistful of feathers he’d frantically grasped. “Apologies, Ambroise!”

Down corridor after corridor, charging darkspawn fell on either side of them as they progressed, either from the dwarf’s well-aimed kicks or the griffon’s slashing claws. Within a brief span of time, the two companions traveled quite the distance--or so it seemed--and, without warning, the griffon brought them to a grinding halt. 

Before them, an elaborate metal door stood, its ornate woven framework immediately recognizable to Ambroise, a hushed memory of so long ago from what seemed another life to him. The Circle Tower.

Varric held on tightly as the griffon reared, spreading its wings to their massive expanse, and bashed the door repeatedly with both powerful front talons. The hinges groaned--and gave way. With a shattering crash, the metal door collapsed inward, the wooden doorframe splintering around it.

“What the bloody--!” a voice shouted from within the gloom. Its owner, Dederic, fluctuating in appearance between the stout templar whom Anders knew and the roiling rage demon he truly was, charged toward them--and straight into the griffon’s snapping beak. Dederic’s flesh was stripped from his skull, his tendons torn to sinewy ribbons. With a roar, the defeated demon sunk back into the Fade.

Wasting no time, the griffon burst into the cell, its keen eyes noting the templar--or fear demon--remaining and, prostrate under the knee of his assailant, the man whom they were seeking. Anders weakly rolled his eyes toward them and struggled to refocus. The warm blood pooled beneath him.

The dwarf leapt to the ground and grabbed one of the splintered pieces to wield as a spear against the riled Bastiann.

“A dwarf, eh? Come on then!” the templar taunted, drawing his sword. Varric rushed Bastiann, wooden stake driving through the meat of the templar’s shoulder. Bastiann swung a wild arc.

Unable to cast spells in animal form, Ambroise immediately metamorphosed back and stepped toward the wounded apostate and the black-robed despair demon posing as Kinloch Hold’s former Knight-Commander. Its hunched form bristled at the Warden’s advance.

“It’s been a long time. They say you’re a hero now,” said Greagoir, rising to meet Ambroise. “The Blight ended yet the horrors remain, don’t they? You see their faces every night--the Grey Wardens . . . all of those men and women sacrificing their lives . . . You strive to save them, but you will fail. The Calling will consume them all . . . as it will consume you in the end.”

Ambroise felt his gut tighten but did not reply. He ignored the demon, focusing his attention on his former comrade-in-arms.

“How many nights did you spend dreaming of taking Greagoir’s life, my friend?”

“Commander . . .” Anders implored.

Ambroise nodded almost imperceptibly. Drawing from the deepest corners of the Fade, the Warden cast a magnificent bloom of magic and drove the summoned mana toward the fallen apostate. 

Rushed with the propelled energy, Anders simultaneously produced a healing aura to salve his open wounds and launched an arcane bolt at Greagoir’s chest, tearing his ribs asunder and exposing the soft organs beneath only to pulverize them with a telekinetic burst. The despair demon’s jaw hung agape. A shrill screech resounded against the walls of the cell. Anders savored the sound, his eyes flashing blue lightning.

Bastiann twisted toward the abrupt scream, pincers clicking, and Varric sunk the splintered stake into his spine. Nearly revived, Anders syphoned the vanquished demons as they fell and absorbed the remaining energy to fully heal. He dropped into a contemplative silence.

Ambroise and Varric waited expectantly. After a few minutes, the apostate finally spoke.

“It's Justice. I can feel him.”

“He’s back?” asked Varric.

“No, not . . . quite,” said Anders. 

“He’s there,” said Ambroise. The Warden pointed to the far end of the cell where, surreally, the wall no longer remained. In its place, a vast chasm lay and, beyond, the Twins of Kirkwall flanked the dark channel of the Waking Sea. The impassive figure of Justice stood on Kirkwall’s imposing outer wall, his blue glow reflecting off the massive bronze statues.

“We’ll never cross that void,” lamented Anders.

Varric and Ambroise exchanged knowing glances.

“Actually, Blondie . . . there might be a way.”


	21. Chapter 21

Unfettered from the world of mortals, soaring above the spectral midnight landscape of the Fade, Anders lightly clung to the griffon’s back and savored the flight. A radiant smile spread across his face as the wind whipped furiously around him. It was the first time in his entire life that he truly felt _free_.

They had nearly cleared the chasm when, narrowing its mighty form into a streamlined missile of fur and feathers, the griffon sped into a nose-dive toward the Waking Sea below. Anders crowed enthusiastically and lifted both arms to welcome the sea-salt spray as the griffon swooped, leveling out mere feet above the dark waves, its rear feline paws dropping from their tapered formation and splashing cool water into the air as they skimmed the crest of the whitecaps.

“Are you _insane_?” yelled Varric, one hand frantically tugging at Anders’ raised arms. The dwarf had locked himself into a panic-stricken bear hug during the aerial voyage, his face buried against the back of the apostate’s robes. He probably would have never realized it before that moment, but _flying_ was no longer on his list of must-try activities. The Fade had more than satisfied that lunatic aspiration if ever he’d held it.

Before them, the city of Kirkwall loomed against the starry sky, its ominous cliffs steering their flight and the blue light of Justice guiding their path. Pawing at the air, mighty wings beating, the griffon quickly regained momentum and altitude. It sped past the twin statues and down the city’s navigable channel, bursting into the Gallows and hastening toward the docks. Justice was on the move. The spirit had altered his course, marching through the city and ascending the narrow steps from Lowtown to Hightown. He seemed now to linger periodically, as if awaiting their arrival.

With a slight plunge toward the cobblestone streets, the griffon glided steadily into the uppermost courtyard at the base of Kirkwall’s chantry, the religious center’s grandiose architecture rising far above the wealthiest of the Hightown estates surrounding it. 

Simultaneously, paws and talons touched down in a well-practiced landing.

Varric released his long-held breath. Jumping from the griffon’s back, he doubled over and wheezed.

“Much thanks for the ride, Ambroise . . . but thank the Maker for solid ground!”

Anders leaned into the downy feathers and embraced the griffon’s neck.

“Blondie, get off him. Remember? Your former Commander? Not a giant flying cat.”

The griffon settled to its haunches, seemingly as content as its rider. Varric couldn’t help but chuckle. What fools mages were--and here they were, racing to save _another_ of their kind . . . perhaps the most foolish of them all. 

It pained the dwarf greatly to think of losing that particular fool, however. More than any other. _Hawke, where in the Void_ are _you?_

Anders dismounted. A brilliant illumination flashed and Ambroise stood before them again, his braid wildly windswept.

“Justice is near. I followed his path,” he stated. “Do you feel his location, Anders?”

The apostate nodded. His eyes dropped.

“What is it?” Ambroise asked.

Varric knew exactly what it was but dared not utter it aloud. The Chantry towered darkly. Evening had since passed. In fact, six years had since passed since the events of this tragic night.

“I can’t do this again, Varric,” said Anders quietly.

“The demons aren’t pulling any punches. The decision has to be yours. I’m not going to force this thing either way, but . . .” The dwarf paused. He hated to say it, but it had to be said. “Blondie, if you don’t enter that chantry again . . . you may lose them both.”

Anders stared at the chantry steps, tears threatening to fall, heartache threatening to consume him. Resolutely, he made his decision. He refused to allow this to keep him from Hawke. He refused to let the demons win. Taking a deep breath, he began to ascend the stone stairs.

“What memory is this?” inquired Ambroise. “What did he find in there?”

Varric sighed heavily.

“He found Karl.”


	22. Chapter 22

“When we find Karl, just let me talk to him.”

Stepping through the front entrance of the chantry, Anders found himself repeating the same instruction to his companions that he’d given Hawke those six long years before, what seemed ages ago. Having only recently been introduced to Hawke at the time, Anders had been uncertain at first as to whether or not he could trust the charismatic refugee, mage though he was. There were many qualities Hawke possessed that Anders found endlessly appealing: his devil-may-care attitude and uninhibited approach to social conventions, his frankness in conversation and unwillingness to conform to what others expected of him. Hawke was the most _genuine_ person Anders had ever known, entirely unapologetic for who he was or for whom he cared. However, the day they’d first met, Anders had quickly felt at ease with Hawke for one reason alone: the compassion that surfaced in the Champion’s eyes when he’d heard of Karl’s predicament. Without hesitation, Hawke had immediately come to Anders’ aid.

But it had been too late. Greagoir had known all along that Anders still had something . . . _someone_ . . . to lose. 

After the apostate had found sanctuary from the templars by accepting conscription into the Grey Wardens, Greagoir had sent word to the Gallows expressing his concern that potential insubordination--even insurrection--might arise from one of their most accomplished mages: Karl Thekla. In the form of many confiscated letters, Kinloch Hold’s Knight-Commander had provided proof of Karl’s long-standing involvement with the known rebel Anders. Discreetly, Meredith had granted Greagoir’s request for the Rite of Tranquility to be performed.

That night in Kirkwall’s chantry, Anders had learned what it was like to lose the one hope to which he’d still clung: to be reunited with the first man he’d ever truly loved.

And, now, was he to survive that anguish again to prevent another?

As Anders raced ahead of his companions, nimbly mounting the vestibule stairs, he steeled himself for the crushing grief of seeing Karl’s vacant stare once more, of hearing his deadened words.

“Anders! My poor, dear Anders . . . Oh, praise the Maker you’re safe! I knew you would never give up!”

All at once, Anders felt himself enfolded in two strong arms, heard the familiar beating of Karl’s heart, as he gathered the apostate in the same breathless embrace they’d shared so many times before as young men in Kinloch Hold. Anders trembled. His emotions shattered, overwhelmed and conflicted. He yearned for it to be true-- _let this be real. Please let this be real . . ._

And, then, the possibility awakened.

 _. . ._ Could _this be real?_

Midway up the stairs, Ambroise at his heels, Varric chafed with indignation at this staggering turn of events. Not only was the desire demon projecting itself as the lost Karl, it was manipulating an authentic memory from the apostate’s past and twisting it to suit its purposes.

“It’s deceiving you, Blondie! You never had a chance to save him! You _need_ to remember what really happened!”

Anders had settled against Karl’s shoulder, yielding to the mage’s affectionate embrace.

“In me thou see’st the Wandering Hills of thy heart / My own is thine, soft ruin’d fortress breached by sighs . . .”

Struck, Anders realized how the years apart had worked to erase the many lingering details of their time together. He had very nearly forgotten the way Karl had always drawn him close with a whispered snippet of poetry--a brief verse which the mage would invariably recite incorrectly and then, flushing with embarassment thereafter, proceed to fumble for words before Anders silenced him with a kiss. Despite the recitation’s flawless delivery, set against such touching remembrances the dwarf’s warning felt false to Anders, an exhortation meant for someone else. Surely, it had nothing to do with him. Why couldn’t they all just let him be? Why must they chase him? All he wanted was to escape--and now he could and with the man he loved by his side.

“Take me away from here,” Karl pleaded.

 _Yes,_ Anders thought. _We’ll leave Ferelden, head toward the Anderfels, like we’d always planned, never to bother a soul. We’ll make a new life for ourselves, together._

A distressing aura of doubt blossomed in Anders’ mind. He knew nothing of its origin, but its very presence rankled.

With the final steps ascended, Ambroise and Varric rushed into the uppermost balcony of the chantry and prepared for inevitable confrontation. Their anticipatory inclinations were thoroughly justified. An onslaught of rage demons, all bearing the insignia of the templars, emerged from the shadows and, drifting into tight formation, built a phalanx to block their path to the baited apostate.

“Focus, Blondie! Don’t let it sway you! They got to Karl. I’m sorry. It was too late. This isn’t real!” Varric shouted past the horde of magmatic demons.

The doubt deepened. Anders shifted, turned briefly toward the dwarf’s call. Karl snapped the apostate’s attention back with a desperate cry. 

“They’re here for me! The templars. They’re to perform the rite tonight. They’re to make me Tranquil. Please . . .”

Spreading a hand gently across Anders’ chest, the desire demon roused the red lyrium infection searing within the apostate’s abdomen. Its corrupted blaze rose at the spirit’s touch, the red lyrium’s song hauntingly elaborate and all-enveloping. It seemed to encompass all emotions at once, a maelstrom of sentiment. Love and hate surged; pleasure and agony coursed through Anders’ veins simultaneously. His nerves fired in rapid succession. He gasped, inundated with sensation, the red flecks once more rising in his eyes.

“Fight them with me. You have the power to defeat them all,” coaxed Karl.

\---

Isabela nearly allowed her hold on Anders to slip. The heat had returned with full force, her palms blistering on contact with the apostate’s bared flesh. The poisoned web of red lyrium pulsed violently. His eyes fluttered open once more, a crystalline glare.

“This might not work, big girl,” the pirate said, wincing.

Her hands scalded and burning still, Aveline still did not flinch. She appeared as if she could withstand the pain for as long as required. Isabela had to admit she was greatly impressed with the Guard-Captain’s legendary fortitude. However, the pirate recognized herself in comparison to be less than awe-inspiring and was in perfect acceptance of that fact--as long as it saved her skin. Literally, in this case.

“The infection . . . It’s being provoked. This won’t stop it.”

Isabela’s hold faltered. To compensate, Aveline shifted her own, her resolve steadfast.

\---

“Together then,” Anders declared. He lovingly placed his hand over Karl’s own, the red lyrium throbbing beneath layered palms. 

No more running. No more hiding. The templars would pay. They would _all_ pay.

Drawing a swell of mana from the Fade, its very essence both corrupted and profoundly magnified upon coalescence with the red lyrium, Anders cast a sweeping cone of cold toward the templars’ phalanx. 

“Get down, Varric!” warned Ambroise. 

Both Warden and dwarf had entered into a direct assault on the phalanx of rage demons but skirted to either side upon observation of the blossoming spell. The icy blast shot past them with blind fury. Any potential reaction from the templars was rendered futile; all were frozen in place as the spell hit. Another second’s time, another surge of red lyrium, and Anders shattered the lot of them with a single gesture.

Behind the apostate, the desire demon leered. It was almost too simple.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough of this demon’s games,” Varric directed Ambroise. “We flank Blondie. You distract him. I’m going after it.”

Ambroise nodded approval of the plan. Varric slipped to the opposite side, evading Anders’ observance of his movements. For the moment. The Warden readied for an open confrontation with the corrupted apostate. However, as he gathered a bloom of mana, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and, with force, held him in check.

“Warden-Commander, I cannot allow this.”


	23. Chapter 23

Justice.

It had been years since Ambroise had encountered the Fade spirit in any form, be it ethereal or corporeal, since last it fought beside him, due to a bizarre turn of events, as his Warden-Lieutenant. The body of the fallen Warden Kristoff it once possessed had long since decayed and been properly laid to rest, and Ambroise had never heard from Justice again following the events at Amaranthine. Until now.

The arm restraining him fell, and Ambroise spun around. Before him, returned to his original state of supernatural luminosity, Justice stood stately and formidable. His armored form wavered translucent, radiating a subtle blue glow. A thin ray of the spirit’s light delicately trailed toward the nearby Anders, the link between them weak but unbroken.

“Much time has passed since last you accepted my counsel, Commander. You may question my veracity. Even so, please, hearken my plea. Do not engage in this battle,” Justice said. “The mage will succumb to the poison; it is fated. You cannot save him.”

Ambroise had always taken Justice’s advisement into close consideration; indeed, the spirit’s judgment had never led them astray. However, the Warden found himself unexpectedly rankled by this response.

“You would yield in the face of adversity now? You would abandon him so easily?”

Justice placed a hand upon Ambroise’s shoulder, as if to soften the refusal.

“I dare not indulge the infection lest I am corrupted myself. If this transpires, there will be no reservation; we will become an abomination, a spirit of Vengeance in full. I will not allow this to come to pass. Better the mage expire.”

Though it did not often occur, anyone within earshot had always been able to immediately recognize when Ambroise’s temper flared as his oft-masked accent would emerge, unrestrained. Shoving the spirit’s hand away, Ambroise’s rebuke sounded, preceded by a stream of foreign curses and flavored by thick Orlesian enunciation.

“I was not only your Commander; I was your friend! _Anders_ was your friend!” Ambroise retorted. “I continue the fight for justice. Did you stop?”

Justice remained silent. Huffing, Ambroise pushed away from him and reestablished his observation of Varric’s movements. The dwarf had crept nearer the disguised desire demon but, before Ambroise could intervene, was spotted, his position compromised.

“The Knight-Captain approaches!”

Anders wheeled toward Karl’s cry, his figure bathed in an ebullition of red lyrium. With echoing steps he approached the dwarf, his eyes observing nothing but the hated armor of the templars, failing to see past the woven illusion to recognize the close friend he had known for so many passing years.

“You will never take another mage!” snarled Anders.

Varric had little time to react. As Ambroise rushed forward, casting a well-aimed but immediately deflected stone projectile, he could only watch helplessly as Anders raged. Swollen with corrupted mana, blinded by the demon’s deception, the apostate rekindled and pitched a tempestuous spirit bolt squarely at the dwarf. In a rush of blood and agony, Varric was hurled from the side of the Chantry’s uppermost balcony.

\---

Intermittently dousing her blistered palms in the frigid water, Isabela had reestablished her hold on Anders beside the steadfast Aveline. Together, they continued to sustain the apostate’s buoyancy, watching in dismay as the red lyrium crystallized in the expansive veins radiating outward from the original laceration. The added weight of the corruption threatened to drag Anders to the rocky bottom. Collaboratively, the two companions fought to keep this very outcome from occurring, despite the seemingly increasing futility of such an undertaking. The river’s temperature had indeed lowered the rate at which the infection festered but clearly had not impeded its strength.

“We maintain,” Aveline said. “It’s all we can do until the situation turns--whichever way it must.”

Isabela acknowledged the obvious behind such a sober declaration: either they keep Anders from drowning in hopes of staving off the infection and allowing him a chance to save Hawke--or they carry him back to solid ground to die beside his equally ill-fated partner.

Behind the two companions, Varric’s unconscious figure stirred briefly, a ribbon of blood seeping through his leather duster.

\---

“Varric--!” 

Ambroise’s frantic shout was cut short, the utterance transformed into a piercing shriek as the Warden dove off the balcony after the dwarf and, in free-fall, transfigured. Streamlining his griffon form, Ambroise plunged toward Varric, his wings held tight against his body and muscles contracting to achieve maximum velocity. Spotting him, Varric reached for the swiftly approaching griffon--but recognized he would likely strike the waiting Chantry floor before making even brief contact with the downy feathers. 

Ambroise, however, remained unconvinced. 

Wings suddenly outspread to halt the nosedive, the griffon burst through a trailing spray of blood from the dwarf’s open wound and mustered every last bit of stamina to swoop directly beneath him, its broad chest scraping the stones below. Varric threw both arms around its neck with a deep sigh of relief. Kicking off from the vestibule floor, both Warden and dwarf ascended to circle back and once more challenge the corrupted apostate.

“She’s here, Anders. Now is the time. You must defeat Meredith, once and for all, or we will never be free,” Karl quietly urged.

Meredith. Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander. It seemed only fitting to Anders. Bolstering his reservoir of mana, he readied himself for the final assault.

Eyeing Anders below, Varric winced. This was it, and he knew it. Do or die. Last chance. They ace out that blasted desire demon or they all lose--everything.

“Drop me, Ambroise, and strike at the demon! It’s playing him against us!”

Beating its wings in muscular rhythm, the griffon drove them both onward toward the edge of the uppermost balcony to allow the dwarf a quick dismount. It was unprepared for the strategic spellcast awaiting its path. Just as Varric slipped from the griffon’s back, heavily landing on the balcony, the primed Anders enveloped the transformed Ambroise in a cloud of swirling illumination, dispelling all sustained magic, draining most of the Warden’s remaining mana, and forcing instant metamorphosis. Man once more, Ambroise felt the gift of flight stolen away from him. He closed his eyes and, entering a disciplined state of self-composure, embraced the unchecked plummet toward the Chantry floor. With only the faintest of spells left available to his depleted summons, Ambroise did what he could and wove a weak telekinetic barrier to ease his inevitable impact--

\--though impact there was none.

The Warden found himself dangling off the side of the balcony. He peered upward at the wounded dwarf who had impulsively launched himself toward the edge to grasp Ambroise’s wrist.

“Where are you going? The fight’s not over,” said Varric.

Ambroise thinly smiled. With the dwarf’s assistance, he began to haul himself up.

Another burst of light. A crimson glow above. Varric’s shout. 

Ambroise felt the dwarf’s hands fall away. Desperately, he caught the side of the balcony and hung suspended once more.

“Meredith, your tyranny ends here. I’ll see you suffer for your crimes.”

Potential strategies for a mana-less assault raced through his head. Ambroise swung widely to the right and dragged himself onto the balcony to stand in direct confrontation against the approaching Anders.

“It is all illusion. The demon deceives you,” the Warden said. “I am no templar, and that is not Karl. Your friend did not survive this night.”

“You _lie_!” screamed Anders, red lyrium ablaze in his eyes. He ignited the Chantry sunburst beside him, the burgundy banner torn from its ornate pole, all aflame.

Ambroise scanned the balcony. Varric lay motionless beside Anders. The desire demon lurked behind him, its predatory grin chilling. Shining an impassive blue through the dancing flames, Justice stood stoic nearby.

As Anders’ fury rose, Ambroise darted toward the banner and, hoisting the heavy iron pole from which it now hung in fiery shreds, launched it toward the desire demon. With a howl, the creature stumbled back, wounded but undefeated. Griefstricken, Anders attacked.

\--- 

“Aveline!” the pirate spurted out, resurfacing. She rushed to retrieve her daggers.

Anders had burst out of the water and had caught both women off-guard, the red lyrium vitalizing his being both in and out of the Fade. Isabela had been flung into the middle of the river, submerged beneath a broiling swell. Aveline had staggered back to her feet but had been almost immediately seized by the throat.

“You’ll die for that,” Anders spat. His fingers closed around the Guard-Captain’s neck, imbued with a malicious strength Aveline could not long endure.

\---

Ambroise cried out as his right kneecap exploded in pain, ruptured by a point-blank spirit bolt and followed by a close second directed further down. His leg shattered with the elemental force, fractured in several places, pale bone gruesomely protruding from torn flesh.

“You’ll die for that,” Anders spat. He wrenched the Warden by the throat--and squeezed. Ambroise struggled in vain. No mana. No weapons. He had failed. 

_My friend . . . Don’t do this . . . It is not too late . . . You can fight this . . ._

As if reading the declining Warden’s thoughts, another emerged to urge such a possibility.

“ENOUGH!” the guttural voice commanded. “Stifle your fury, mage!”

Anders released his grip from the Warden’s throat and turned to face the challenger. Choking, Ambroise collapsed.

“I doubted you, Anders. I should not have. You _are_ strong enough. _We_ are strong enough,” Justice proclaimed.

The Fade spirit met the apostate eye-to-eye, the link between them increasingly luminescent with renewed vigor. Anders’ rage receded.

“Justice . . . The song . . . It’s overwhelming--”

“Do not yield to this corruption. Remember why you sought me out.”

Anders hung his head. He shut out the song, refused its beckoning. The crimson veil dropped, and his vision began to clear. Memories flooded his mind.

The boisterous evenings in The Hanged Man. Coins jingling, bottles clinking. The bitter smell of cheap ale. Losing at Wicked Grace one more time. Varric’s reassuring pat on the back. Fenris’ scoff. Isabela’s playful pinch. A mabari’s nuzzle.

And then . . . a peal of hearty laughter rang in his ears, consuming all.

Hawke.

The coarse bristles of the Champion’s beard tickling the nape of his neck. The kisses planted on his forehead when he finally succumbed to exhaustion, his tall frame curled awkwardly on the cot in his clinic--and how he always awoke at Hawke's estate, having been gently carried to their bed as soon as sleep overtook him. The mischievously scrawled notes and sketches Hawke would leave him, scattered throughout the pages of his manifesto. The replenished bowls of milk left daily outside the estate to entice any felines--a tradition which had yet to work, though Hawke continued after all these years in hopes of fulfilling the much-articulated desire. The brawny arms curling around his waist and triumphantly lifting him into the air after every hard-won victory.

And, then, an earnest vow, despite all opposition. The thin gold earring lovingly presented and placed, a ceremonial match with Hawke’s own recently acquired.

 _“I’m no poet, Anders, so I'll just say it outright . . .”_ and Hawke had smiled broadly. _“I choose you. Forever and always. It's you and me against the world, love."_


	24. Chapter 24

_Forever and always._

The Warden-Commander had been correct. Justice had underestimated the apostate’s ability to fend off the corruption; this was clear.

Anders surveyed the destruction at his feet, horror-struck, and rallied to repair the harm done. Gathering a tide of restorative energy, the apostate encircled his fallen companions in a soft emerald glow and urged his magic to heal their injuries posthaste. With grim determination, he met the spirit’s waiting gaze.

“Protect them. I will finish this,” Anders said.

Justice nodded in acquiescence. In silence, he unsheathed his spectral dagger and handed it to the apostate. No words were needed; both knew what had to be done.

Despite his full awareness of the illusions being spun, Anders faltered upon the mere sight of the desire demon’s chosen facade. Karl awaiting rescue. Karl, alive and whole once more.

Eagerly, the mage dashed toward Anders and again embraced him.

“I told you that you had the power to defeat them! But we must leave now. There will be more."

Anders tensed. Every fibre of his being urged him to surrender. _This is real. This is right. This is the way it was always meant to be._

Yet, still, he pulled away. Karl frowned. 

“They’ll kill us if we stay, Anders.” 

_Focus._ Anders grasped the dagger tighter. 

“You’re already dead, my sweet Karl. I killed you myself.”

Anders leaned forward, lovingly touching his forehead against Karl’s in a last farewell, and thrust the blade deep into the mage’s heart. The apostate’s own thumped violently against his ribs as if it, too, had been pierced, and an anguished scream caught in his throat.

\---

Anders’ hold on Aveline had since been released. Striking from behind, Isabela had dragged him away from the retching Knight-Captain and back onto land--red lyrium be damned. The apostate’s entire body had slackened. The struggle was over.

“I’m sorry, Karl. I’m so sorry.”

Anders’ heartbroken tears fell unseen, mingling with the river water dousing his face.

\---

Once more, Anders held Karl in his arms as the mage collapsed, his life ebbing away.

“You’re a fool,” the desire demon whispered, “You could have had all that you ever wanted.”

Through welling tears, Anders rent the blade upwards, cleaving the demon from chestplate to chinbone, a great gout of black blood bursting forth.

“All I want is Hawke, you fucking bastard.”


	25. Chapter 25

As the last thin layer of frost from Anders' parting spell fully melted, Hawke’s chest rose sharply with a sudden inhalation. The song of the red lyrium resonated within, its rhapsodic abandon threatening to swallow his sanity--and, before long, to revel evilly in the last moments of his life.

\---

Far above the Chantry towers, the earth-shattering roar of a High Dragon rolled like thunder.


	26. Chapter 26

_Hurtled into the chaos, you fight . . . and the world will shake before you._

The witch’s prophetic words echoed in Hawke’s mind.

Slavers, smugglers, raiders, mercenaries. Darkspawn and demons. Blood mages and templars. The Qunari. The Champion had fought them all, and they all had fallen. There seemed an endless stream of blood on his hands, and both destruction and death had littered the path he’d chosen to lead.

“But they were criminals! They deserved their fates!” Hawke shouted aloud.

“Did they?” came the inquiry, evenly posed. “And what of you and your friends, Champion? Have you all not been similarly inclined?”

Hawke’s certitude crumbled. It was true; he and his own had often fought for justice by courting criminality themselves, but, surely, lawlessness for the greater good was to be commended and not punished . . . wasn’t it?

“Your friends’ deaths were equally deserved, were they not?” the voice questioned.

Hawke clawed at his febrile temples, the red lyrium weaving both genuine memory and fabricated nightmare together as one. His skin was blood-smeared, his armor battered. He’d been running for what seemed like years. Fighting everything in his path. Kirkwall burned in the shadow of the Viscount’s Keep, and Hawke’s friends . . . they were . . . they were all . . .

Merciless flashbacks of his fallen companions haunted him. Merrill, cornered by the Coterie looters, her broken body cast aside in an alley near Kirkwall’s Alienage. Aveline, hopelessly outnumbered and engulfed mid-battle by the Qunari as they stormed the city stairs. Sebastian, thrown from the Chantry tower while defending its besieged walls. Isabela, dragged from the Hanged Man to be executed in plain sight by the Arishok. Fenris, cut down by a barrage of Ashaad arrows while attempting a rescue of the fated pirate. Varric, sacrificing himself to a rampaging Saarebas in Hightown to provide a clear path to the Keep. And Anders . . . one last healing spell cast, the vicious arc of the Bassrath-Kata, blue radiance dimming, his amber eyes rolling white . . .

“No--!” Hawke screamed. “No, he isn’t--! He can’t be--! _They’re not dead!_ ”

Perched atop the Keep’s fortified ramparts, Flemeth studied him. Had she been incorrect about the Champion’s fate all along? She keenly observed with what seemed a passing curiosity the red lyrium engulf him, recognizing its poisonous effects on both mind and spirit. _Better the mage believe he leaves nothing of import behind_ , she thought. _I will offer him that, at least._

Nimbly, the witch leapt from the ramparts and advanced towards him.

“My dear boy, I sympathize with your loss. And you have lost so much more since first we met,” Flemeth continued. “But you must let them go. They led you to this end. You surrounded yourself with thieves and killers. Vengeful runaways. The forsaken and the downtrodden. Casualties of an unjust world. You could have been so much more--”

“Stop!” Hawke gritted his teeth. “They were my friends. My _family_.”

“They were your doom.”

Holding the Champion’s chin in her armored hand, Flemeth met his corrupted gaze with her own, unshakeable and ancient.

“You have no one left to lead and no one left to love. You have nothing left for which to fight, Hawke. Let it take you. Without an end, there can be no peace.”

\---

The call of the High Dragon had unnerved them all, yet still they persisted.

“I can offer you no assurance of success, Anders. I am not certain if our reunification shall yield enough power to combat the corruption,” admitted Justice. “Are you quite positive that this is what you desire?”

“I would do anything to save Hawke,” said Anders.

Justice nodded. Within moments, the Fade spirit no longer stood before them in armored translucence. The trail of blue between them expanded, contracted, and all but disappeared--only to flash visible in lightning formation beneath Anders’ flesh and to glow brilliantly behind his steely glare.

“We waste precious time. Let us find the Champion,” Justice declared, approaching the companions.

A hand still clutching his wounded chest, Varric shot him a frown. He’d shuffled over to the fallen Warden and, after surveying his mangled leg, wondered if they weren’t, in fact, two down for the count. Though Anders’ healing spells had been strengthened, they had only partially healed his companions’ wounds.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Justice. I’m grateful for your help, and I’m happy to see you two are of the same mind now--literally--but . . . Could you perhaps let Anders take the helm? Healing touch and all, you understand.”

The spirit acquiesced, begrudgingly, and Anders reemerged.

“Oh, Maker! Varric, Ambroise, I’m so sorry!” the apostate lamented, immediately summoning more mana to boost the diminished healing spells. The green aura again glowed brightly.

Ambroise offered a quiet half-chuckle that caught both Varric and Anders by surprise. He struggled to sit up as his leg was restored.

“Ambroise? What is it?” asked Anders, assisting his former Commander to an upright position.

Ambroise grimaced.

“A small world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your friend is _Hawke_? Of the Amell family?”

Bewildered, Anders nodded. Ambroise’s laugh deepened.

 _Of course!_ Varric thought. He’d known the Hero of Ferelden hailed from Kirkwall, but he’d never have imagined . . .

“Yes. A bit more than a friend, actually. You know Hawke--?” asked Anders.

His wounds nearly stitched, Varric grinned. This was too much.

“He’s an Amell, Blondie. I should think he knows his own cousin!”

“Adopted,” Ambroise corrected. “And by reputation only, I’m afraid--though quite the reputation he has, doesn’t he?”

 _Well, that explains the accent_ , the dwarf noted.

Anders had yet to utter a word; in fact, he was rather taken aback. When he did respond, he appeared almost flustered.

“I’m sorry, Commander! I had no idea! Hawke had never mentioned you being--”

“You’ve nothing for which to apologize, I assure you. The Amells were not too keen on welcoming an Orlesian into their family--especially a child used solely as an underhanded political manuever--and even less so following the realization that their foreign son was 'cursed with magic.' Hawke is most likely entirely unaware.” Following this explanation, Ambroise placed a hand on the apostate’s shoulder and offered him a knowing smile. “I am happy for you, my friend. It seems you have finally found a home after all.”

"I have," Anders confessed. “ _He's_ my home. He's everything to me.”

Steadfast, Ambroise rose and tested his weight on the near-mended leg, nodding in satisfaction.

“Then let’s save my notorious cousin, shall we? I look forward to finally meeting the man . . . and thanking him for taking such good care of my friends.”


	27. Chapter 27

As the three men descended the vestibule stairs in tight formation, a great gust of wind caught them off-guard, swirling about them with such blinding force that it bade them shut their eyes against its ferocity. Time swept past them. They could feel its very abstraction unhinge. Had they lost hours or years, perhaps centuries? None could say. When the temporal gale withdrew, their senses were immediately assualted by the pungent smell of charred flesh and the distant crackling of enduring flames. Directly ahead of them, the ornate stone entrance of the Chantry stood in crumbled ruins, a gaping hole enabling a brief glimpse of the burning city beyond.

“At least we’re still in Kirkwall,” offered Varric. “Home sweet smouldering home.”

“And we know _when_ ,” added Anders.

Varric nodded soberly. It had been three years since the Qunari laid siege to Kirkwall, and he’d yet to forget the keening cry of the mourners that had swelled for weeks following the carnage. At times, it plagued even his dreams. The majority of those slaughtered in the fray had been unarmed innocents--laborers, merchants, sailors, refugees, vagrants--all simply trying to scrape by in the labyrinths of Lowtown only to be cornered in the fiery assault and systematically cut down by the invading Qunari. After Hawke had defeated the Arishok and been hailed Champion of Kirkwall, he’d done what he could to help rebuild and defend Lowtown and its inhabitants, but those with the most wealth--including, ironically, the supposedly charitable Chantry--were far more interested in offering mere placations and moving on. It made Varric sick with a bitter rage. For a time, he began to at least partly understand Anders’ driving desire for vengeance, but the sentimental truth was he was more interested in expending his energy on doing good than on punishing evil. He’d attempted to sway Anders wholly toward this position and, though the apostate had remained as altruistic as ever, there was a quiet darkness growing in him that had caused the dwarf more than a typical amount of concern.

“News of the siege traveled even as far as abandoned Adamant,” said Ambroise, noting their surprise and adding a brief explanation. “I was traveling west through the Approach and had set camp at the fortress. A company of Orlesian Wardens sought me out to discuss what they perceived as the mounting Qunari threat.”

“Do you not share their apprehension?” asked Anders.

Ambroise flinched almost imperceptibly. He stepped through the collapsed entrance to the Chantry, his companions close behind.

“I believe the Qunari are the least of Thedas’ concerns at the moment. Something else draws near, something that will shake the world to its core.”

_We stand upon the precipice of change._

The witch’s enigmatic warning flashed across Anders’ memory, her startling draconic transformation burnt into his brain and kindling recognition. She had greatly unnerved him upon their first and only encounter; indeed, she had called him out, somehow aware of his fusion with Justice. To make matters worse, Hawke had spent day after day thereafter in an attempt to unravel her riddles. _The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment and, when it comes, do not hesistate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly._ Eventually, Hawke had staggered into Anders’ clinic, half-cocked, and thrown a pile of ale-stained papers at him, exclaiming in agitation that the witch’s words were undecipherable and, through a series of extravagant gesticulations, pronouncing them to be nothing but “the roundabout ramblings of a demented dragon-haired loon!” Anders hadn’t argued otherwise, though he had doubted very much that the witch was as deranged as Hawke had convinced himself she was. In truth, Anders feared her prophecy . . . and what it might mean for his future with Hawke. Did they even _have_ a future together? Did they have a future _at all_?

“She can be damned to the Void,” the apostate muttered angrily, clenching his fists.

Varric and Ambroise both shot questioning looks his way.

“Anders--?”

The apostate pointed toward the distant Viscount’s Keep where, upon its ramparts, the High Dragon perched in unsettling silence.

“Hawke’s been driven to the Keep,” said Anders. “I know it. I can feel it. She's _using_ him.”

“Who?” asked Varric.

“Flemeth.”


	28. Chapter 28

Ambroise’s eyes narrowed.

_“Flemeth?”_

The name tasted bitter even as it passed his lips.

Abstractedly tying his loose hair back, Anders nodded in the affirmative. His mind was racing, his deliberation grown frenzied. Was this _actually_ the famed Witch of the Wilds or yet another demon in disguise? If her presence in the Fade was genuine, why was she here--and what did she want with Hawke?

_It doesn’t matter. She can’t have him._

With effort, he steered his attention back toward his companions, catching the last of the Warden’s ominous words of caution.

“. . . truly is Flemeth, this will be a battle for Hawke’s soul.”

A grim silence settled amongst them--the silence before a storm.

Without another word, Anders broke into a determined sprint down the Chantry steps, his companions close behind. As they entered the courtyard below, Varric stumbled, nearly tripping over the silvered ash longbow that lay shattered at his feet. Only moments later he discerned its former owner--though the once-immaculate armor and familiar face had been rendered nearly unrecognizable from their devastating impact upon the stonework.

“Choir Boy. . .”

Anders paused. This wasn’t right. Sebastian had most certainly survived the Qunari siege . . . _only to harass me with his grating self-righteousness_ , the apostate added with a sigh.

“We must hurry. These are false memories. She’s trying to break him.”

Through the twisting streets of Hightown they raced, their footfalls pounding. Plumes of billowing, black smoke rose from the distant Keep and darkened the hazy morning air. The columns stood ablaze, their spiraling vines of ivy now threaded fire encircling monolithic marble. 

“False memories indeed. Flemeth is holding nothing back. As one might expect,” said Ambroise, a quiet resentment lacing his words that was difficult to miss. 

He pointed toward the edge of the Merchants’ Guild where, razed by what had clearly been an onslaught of ball lightning, lay the defeated body of Varric himself.

“Now that’s just hurtful,” the dwarf huffed.

“I wouldn’t take too much offense. It seems she’s done away with the lot of us,” said Anders.

Suspended from the threshold of Viscount’s Way in gruesome display, the executed pirate and her would-be defender marked their arrival at the Keep. The apostate turned away, pained. Varric’s blood boiled, his vigor renewed for swift action--and payback.

Without delay, they passed beneath the tattered banners of the assassinated Viscount Dumar, the winged crest once proudly emblazoned now bitten by flames. The stately entrance to the Keep awaited them, its splintered doors swung wide. Corpses littered the main vestibule, both Qunari and human alike. Resolute, Anders led them toward the eastern wing and into the throne room to seek rear access to the Keep’s highest stronghold where the dragon patiently perched.

At the center of the throne room, the grisly remains of the fallen Arishok lay in sound defeat; however, it was the ravaged corpse staked prominently in the forefront that unsettled Anders. He felt his chest tighten but forced a jest.

“Maker, you would have thought I’d have had the sense to duck!”

Neither Varric nor Ambroise were fooled by his levity, but they said nothing. In uneasy silence, the companions began their ascent to the tower’s peak, one step closer to Hawke with each new turn--and to an ancient power none would ever have suspected.


	29. Chapter 29

“Well, that was lively, wasn’t it?” exclaimed Isabela, sprawled in exhaustion beside the recently subdued Anders. “How are you holding up, big girl?”

Aveline tested the tender marks on her neck with a wince. 

“I’ve endured worse.”

Rolling onto her stomach, Isabela addressed the Guard-Captain with a hint of irritation. 

“Would it kill you to admit vulnerability once in a bloody blue moon?”

“Isabela--”

“I’m only being honest, but go ahead; I’m sure you’re going to tell me to--”

“Move!” shouted Aveline abruptly, drawing her sword.

The pirate’s brows furrowed, but it didn’t require another warning to prompt her immediate response. Anders had risen to his feet and, passively, stood motionless before them. Though his body was ablaze, gouged by blue lightning, his eyes remained closed. The two women observed him cautiously.

“Justice?” ventured Isabela.

Behind them, Hawke cried out as if in reply, the red lyrium swelling within his fevered skull.

\---

_. . . Without an end, there can be no peace._

Hawke blinked blindly against the crimson veil.

“Give me peace. There’s nothing left,” he whispered.

Flemeth nodded. It was time. Time to correct past mistakes. Time to end what she never should have started--what she never should have saved. Engaging the corruption’s core at it source, she kindled it. The red lyrium raged.

“HAWKE!” A frantic voice howled across the tower’s expanse. 

The Champion dropped to his knees in abject defeat. Heedless of his own safety, Anders dashed toward his failing partner. A volatile bloom of mana spread within his open palm.

“Blondie, NO!” Varric shouted.

Ambroise launched himself at the distraught apostate and, catching him around the chest, restrained him in a powerful embrace--but it was too late. Having roused a crackling wave of arcane energy, Anders sent it hurtling toward the witch as both he and the Warden tumbled to the ground. 

There was a staggering burst of illumination. The spellcast dissipated, smoothly neutralized. A throaty cackle rose in return.

“Please tell me this is a demon gone incognito,” muttered Varric, brandishing the twin pair of daggers he’d swiped from one of the fallen Qunari. “At least that’s a beastie I know we can best.”

“I’m afraid not. Ready yourself,” said Ambroise, still keeping the struggling Anders in a firm hold. Beneath his breath, he addressed the apostate directly and firmly, “You will not win this fight, my friend. Even with Justice. She is . . . more than she seems. More than a mere mage. She is something else. Go to Hawke now, and you _will_ die.”

“ _He’ll_ die if I don’t!” hissed Anders. “He’s all that matters to me!” 

“I will get you to him. If ever you trusted me, trust me now. Wait for my signal.”

Flemeth approached the trio with deliberate steps and a wicked grin. Ambroise rose, releasing Anders, and stepped forward to intercept.

“Well, well . . . Commander of the Grey, ‘Hero of Ferelden’ . . . I’ve been searching for you, Ambroise. You’re a difficult man to locate,” Flemeth said. “Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Or the right place at the right time,” Ambroise offered. “It depends upon one’s perspective, does it not?”

Another peal of laughter.

“Still quite the optimist I see.”

“Hope is often all we have left to us. For a better life. A better world.”

Flemeth regarded him curiously.

“You believe you can save the Wardens . . . that you can find a cure for the Calling . . . but this was never meant to be. You’ve played your part well; the Wardens will now play theirs. Thedas has no need of you anymore, Ambroise. You’ve been hailed a hero; is that not enough?”

“I’ve no need of your approval, nor have I the inclination to trust a word you say. Like mother like daughter, no? You have both manipulated me for your own means.” Ambroise felt the old wound reopen but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “I’ve not come to discuss old grudges, Flemeth; I’ve come for the man now in your grasp.”

Thoughtfully, Flemeth paced. 

“The Champion has served his purpose. Unlike you, however, he has the decency to accept it. I acknowlege my misjudgment; Hawke was never truly worthy of my consideration. He plays no role in the waiting world.”

Infuriated, Varric glared at the witch. Anders advanced, baring his teeth. With strategic steps, the Warden placed himself in the immediate line of fire to deter another premature attack. Flemeth’s smirk widened. 

“But this mage . . . such fated work yet to fulfill. Let him come, Ambroise. Let him fight.” She studied Anders, her gaze darkening, her attention settling wholly on the apostate. Ambroise watched her warily as she approached ever nearer, now speaking to Anders alone. “Or perhaps you would favor a deal. Your Fade spirit can stave off the infection for mere hours more. It need not be. Your survival, the red lyrium wiped from your veins, _the darkspawn taint removed_ . . . I offer all for Hawke’s untroubled demise. If you truly love him, you would wish his misery ended. Surely, he would wish the same for you.”

“Would you not consider our joint survival as trade for your own?” Anders threatened, his tone even though ethereal electricity screamed through his veins. Her offer held little temptation for him. The end was to come no matter and, ultimately, he would rather face it, bloody and defeated, with Hawke by his side then cured, alone, with no reason left to live.

“So be it,” Flemeth dryly declared. “ Fight the good fight, boy. You have always had _everything_ to lose after all.”

For one fleeting moment, Anders trembled once more as if before Greagoir. He could feel the Knight-Commander’s calloused hands on his skin, his ale-soured breath moist against his neck. He could feel nothing but pain, an abysmal wound never healed--and then, an absence. Dissociated, he had survived--a repeated survival without what seemed ever an end. Now, to save Hawke, Anders willed himself full presence and vigilance. His head throbbed. Justice clawed for release; he could deny him no longer.

As if time itself complied with the apostate’s potentially futile endeavor, the minutes briefly slowed their stretch. Flemeth’s spellcast wavered, a blood-red crush of lyrium to end it all. Hawke gasped, his breath constricted, his body writhing in a death shudder. With a nod of the Warden's head, in unison the companions struck, their efforts synergetic. 

Just as Anders yielded to the spirit within and charged Flemeth with unrestrained vengeance, Varric at his side, Ambroise illuminated the field with a shimmering shield, simultaneously warding his companions against her inevitable counterattack. 

“I have slain you once before, witch! I will do so again--as many times as is required--for I trust you not and never shall!” the Warden shouted, his Orlesian determination punctuated by rooted fury and formality.

Wielding both daggers with expert precision, Varric slid past Flemeth, catching her right achilles tendon and cleanly severing it above the back of the heel. Without a second glance, the dwarf resumed his focused dash toward Hawke.

Flemeth staggered, enraged, as Justice loomed. Murderously, the Fade spirit grasped her by the throat to silence her agonized cries, his fingers driving into the chords of her neck.

“I will get justice, by any means required. Save the Champion, or I will grind your bones to dust in this realm _and_ in the next. Not even the depths of the Fade itself will grant you stealthy escape from my vengeance. I will stalk your very essence through these stygian passages.”

“You . . . are but . . . a shadow,” Flemeth growled. Impossibly, a guttural laugh swelled in her throat, a low roar rising. Her canines bared, elongating. Her flesh rippled with emergent scales. “Confront me, spirit. I AM Justice. I AM _Vengeance_. I am your Dragon embodied full.”


	30. Chapter 30

_Well, bugger me running and blast the fool who said it can’t be done! This is how it all ends, is it? Choked out by a blighted mineral--_

That _you_ unearthed. 

_Duped by a dragon-haired loon--_

Whom _you_ trusted. I mean, really. Well done, Garrett. You should have seen this one coming a league away--

_Not fair. Who would have ever bet even a single coin on this particular set of bizarre circumstances?_

“No one. That’s who,” Hawke choked out, the defiant conclusion to his internal debate unexpectedly audible. His head was a throbbing mass of coagulated agony but at least the veil had lifted. For the first time in what felt like years he was lucid again-- _well, at least as lucid as a dying man can be,_ he considered grimly, fully aware of his predicament.

With Flemeth’s attention momentarily engaged elsewhere, her control of the red lyrium’s core had slackened, releasing the Champion from her illusory hold. However, the crystalline corruption remained.

Collapsing heavily to the stonework, Hawke regarded Varric with a muted sense of curiosity as the dwarf rushed to his side.

“What are you--? How--?”

“Now’s not the time for twenty questions, Hawke,” Varric said, wrapping a comforting arm around the Champion. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Did he believe that? Truly _believe_ it? Blind desperation had driven him to maintain faith for the slim chance of success, but the luck of this draw caused him to actively consider whether this would, in fact, be the last time he ever spoke to Hawke. Before he could formulate what he wanted to say--and what could he possibly say?--the Champion broke the silence with a labored acknowledgment.

“I never fancied myself a damsel in distress.”

The dwarf assented, sniffling softly. 

“Not a chance. After all, your chest hair is beginning to rival even my own.”

Holding his friend close, for once in his life Varric felt utterly powerless. The metamorphosis now complete, Flemeth rose as high dragon in all her majestic grandeur. A formidable entity. An invincible foe. His death grasp now lost, Justice was flung across the tower’s open expanse, buffeted by leathery wings.

_Nothing’s invincible, you nug-head. Everything has a weakness._

Steeling himself, Varric clutched the twin daggers and charged back into the fray. If anyone could heal Hawke, it was Anders. It had always been Anders. Varric knew that now.

_The fade spirit may not be Flemeth’s weakness--_

Varric considered, falling into a heavy sprint. A piercing cry met the dragon’s roar, Ambroise’s griffon bearing down upon the monstrous reptilian from above and clashing in open combat, teeth bared and claws locked.

_\--but perhaps we found it nonetheless._


End file.
